


Ruselm's Bestiary

by laceyalexandria



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Action/Adventure, Bromance to Romance, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, M/M, Multi, Originally Posted on Wattpad, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:15:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 44,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24577426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laceyalexandria/pseuds/laceyalexandria
Summary: Aspiring author and adventurer extraordinaire, Ruselm Jurren of Nazair is on a quest to pen a bestiary. Not just any bestiary  -  the best bestiary; something helpful and reliable for years to come. The best way to achieve something like that is to get information directly from the source. What better a source than a witcher? (Originally published on Wattpad, begins pre-S01 and continues throughout.)
Relationships: Geralt of Rivia & Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	1. Fight of the Warg (Part One)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sweetjawregui](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=sweetjawregui).



> As stated in the summary, I began publishing this on Wattpad but I would like to begin here as well. I have many chapters written already and will publish them. This is a better representation of my writing, although it still needs to undergo editing, so please excuse any mistakes! They'll be fixed in time. 
> 
> Please enjoy. Ruselm is my baby, and he'll be subject to major character development.

**“EXCUSE ME, SIR** , but could you spare a moment to talk to me? I only have a few questions, as I overheard you talking just a few moments ago to your good friend about the beast which you’ve encountered in the forest.” Ruselm examined the man before him with a careful eye, successfully attempting to mask his inner conclusions about the plump traveler before him. Who was he to judge the newcomer, after all? It's not as if the vagabond had anything to indicate he was above this man and his companion. Ruselm was simply burning with curiosity, desperate to figure out what could be plaguing his fellow compatriots this time. Perhaps the beast would be real for once, and not a joke to which everyone laughed but him!

The man, he must have seen fifty winters with his sparse graying hair, turned to look at Ruselm with a glimmer of surprise in his sapphire eyes. He exchanged a wary look with the unfamiliar traveler beside him, presumably his friend. Ruselm predicted this to be true with how close the two were standing together. "Aye, I suppose I could," the older man nodded. "What do you want to know about that monster?"

_Yes!_

Ruselm could hardly contain the excitement flowing through his veins, sending pulses of secondhand adrenaline through his extremities. He tried to keep his voice low as he spoke, drawing out a fresh leather-bound journal that was perennially tucked under his arm. A white quill, taken from an eagle, appeared in his hand from seemingly nowhere as he poised it above the page, experimentally raising his eyes to the travelers in front of him while performing his miraculous balancing act. Around the three men, the local villagers went about their business as though they were invisible for they were quite used to Ruselm's incessant prodding, if not thoroughly annoyed by it already. He'd questioned nearly all the merchants and pestered every last man who claimed to see a shadow until they were blue in the face. They didn't see any reason to bail the travelers out to keep them from his harassment, either.

"What did this beast look like?" Ruselm lifted his eyes without moving his head, pinning the travelers to the ground they stood on with his probing gaze alone.

The younger traveler with thick hair as brown as a doe's hide spoke up first before the older man could get a chance to answer. "It's no 'beast,' you ass. It's a _monster_ , an abomination!" His voice was surprisingly soft and melodic, a harsh contrast to the foulness of his language and the venom with which he spat his words. It was like being cursed at by a rabbit. Mellow, but crude.

With a bow of his head, Ruselm rephrased. "What did this monster look like?"

"Shut up, Luvrad," the older man was speaking now, annoyance making his sharp features more jarring to behold. He crossed his arms over the indigo tunic which was a tad too big for his large form. "The monster was as overgrown as a horse, I tell you, with jaws that could stretch to fit around a boulder! Its teeth were yellow. The ugliest shade of yellow you can imagine, with black eyes to match. It looked like a wolf but it was far too large to be one."

"Its pelt must have been three times thicker!" Luvrad added, excited. He gestured with his hands as he spoke, using lots of expressions to get his point across. "A thick brown coat, about as dark as your own hair. Darker, even. He was by the river."

Ruselm nodded noiselessly, taking notes. He held a small well of ink tucked between two olive fingers as he balanced the journal on his forearm, nose close to the page to make sure he got the information correct as he wrote it down with a rapid hand. He hummed a few times to show the men he was still listening.

"Ben," Luvrad was turning to the graying man. "What's the word that it's called? It starts with a _W_ , like 'wolf' but it's completely different..."

Before Ben could answer his friend, Ruselm spoke up in a small voice. "It's a warg," he didn't look up from his writing. "It's actually a subspecies of wolf, a much larger breed and far more prone to violence against humans. Congratulations on surviving, lads, wargs don't usually let their prey get away."

The travelers exchanged a startled glance, silence festering when neither man could find the words to speak their thoughts. Ruselm didn't need to hear anything more from Ben or Luvrad, at least, because he was unsure either would be able to provide him with any solid answers. If Ruselm wanted to figure out more about the warg the men had seen, he'd simply have to go see the beast himself, even if it was dangerous. Who else would venture out and do it? Ruselm was entirely sure that the current bestiaries that common folk used were filled with misinformation due to the cowardice of their authors.  


Well, not Ruselm's. His would never be like that. He needed cold, hard, irrefutable facts and the only way the Nazairian could get those was by observing the warg himself. No matter the danger.

Snapping his journal shut with such vehement force that the men before him visibly flinched, faces contorting with surprise for a brief moment, Ruselm turned his eyes up at them for the first time. He smiled in a kind way, the book becoming tucked under his arm once more and the quill disappearing somewhere up his sleeve where the inkwell had vanished.

"Thanks for talking to me!" Ruselm beamed, white teeth flashing them a bright smile. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'll be on my way to the forest."

"What the hell are you going to do in the forest?" Luvrad challenged with a hardened green eye. He stepped forward as though to move and stop the author, but paused. He didn't touch him. "You can't be going to find the monster? You certainly don't look like a witcher."

"That's because I'm not one," he shot back.

"Then what are you doing?" Ben interrupted. The older man frowned so deeply wrinkles formed at the corners of his eyes, weighing down on his face with the weariness of age.

Ruselm waved a hand nonchalantly. "I'm going to take a look at your warg! I've never seen one before," he gushed, excitement coloring his tone. "It would be quite the start to my bestiary if I could write about a fearsome warg haunting Sodden!"

Luvrad snorted. "What? Never handled a warg in Nazair before?"

This time it was Ruselm's turn to frown, the action hard for his face to make the expression correctly. It wasn't often that he found himself unhappy or down by another's words but it was easy to mix the ingredients a different way when Ruselm's Nazairian heritage became a topic of discussion. He knew after leaving his home that others would always find a way to nitpick at his privilege. After all, nobody was particularly fond of Nazairians so why should they bother with being polite?

"In fact," Ruselm took a deep breath, an action he often forced himself to take in order to keep his emotions in check. He forced a tight smile. "I haven't. They're not fond of the terrain there, but up by Sodden? I'm not surprised. Now, gentlemen, I'll be taking my leave. Thank you for your invaluable information."

He turned to leave before either idiot could open their mouth with a retort. Flames chased Ruselm all the way to the edge of the forest, heat rising up the back of his neck and hot on his heels. The Nazairian was more apoplectic with anger and annoyance than he'd originally estimated, the emotions only fueling him further to take his first step past the treeline and into the darkness the canopy offered with the dying sunlight. This darkness matched the shadow of his soul.

Tenebrosity loomed in the air, black shadow engulfing the entirety of the forest surrounding the cluster of the village homes and shrouding the environment around Ruselm with a blanket of darkness. The air itself had become three shades darker, a chilly wind blowing between the tree trunks as he stepped carefully over rocks and sticks in his path. He knew his way to the river where the warg was spotted, having roughly sketched a map of the area around this town at Ruselm's arrival a few days prior.

That was the author's routine: arrive in a completely new area, map the surroundings, pester the merchants and travelers, read their notice board and maybe nick the drawings and descriptions of monsters from there. Interview the villagers, write in his journal. Every part of this way of life came naturally to him as though Ruselm were never meant to settle down and live a life of silence or solitude.  
No, he couldn't see himself doing anything but traveling.

The man's home in Nazair had been extravagant but simple, built by the hands of generations of men from Ruselm's family. His great, great-grandfather, Florys the Strong, had been the one to begin the foundations of their home and Ruselm's grandfather, Stefan, had finished them. Theirs was built with care and attention to detail but it had been no home for the aspiring author.

How could he cultivate his mind if he stayed cooped up his whole life in a house only he had known? The answer was simple. He couldn't, and it was when Ruselm had reached manhood that he ventured from Nazair into the world unknown. Travel to places he had only ever heard of was particularly difficult; the road was long and lonely, and he often missed the companionship of his childhood playmate, Maurits, who had been by his side since birth.

They were not related but Maurits's father worked under Ruselm's. The boys grew together, fed from the same breast, played together, learned together, read stories together. Leaving behind his faithful companion was the hardest thing Ruselm had ever done, though in the end, he knew it must be so. The world would not wait for him, thus he could not dally when matters of adventure called his name.  
Maurits had vehemently disagreed.

Though this journey was not about Maurits. It was about Ruselm of Nazair, author and adventurer extraordinaire! The Nazairian would brave beasts and men alike if it meant he could one day live up to his dream of creating the perfect bestiary.

 _Quiet, Ruselm._ His instinct chided him, calming the thoughts that continued to swirl and consume his mind and leveling the cries at his injustice in mere seconds. _Ahead, do you hear it? Ahead, ahead, ahead. Water. Snarls. The warg._

Ruselm quieted. Listened. And he heard it.

The gentle gurgle of the river that cut its way through the forest, powerful swaths of water rushing over stone smoothed by years of patient pressure. There was the disruption of the tributary's harmony, an aggressive noise cutting in and out, which could only belong to the warg himself as the sound was a wolf's guttural growl. A rolling noise, nasty to hear, and terrible to behold. He could tell it was close and crouched low to the ground, ducking between trees as he neared the water.

If he could avoid being detected by the beast, Ruselm was willing to go to any lengths necessary to ensure their paths would not cross.

Checking the wind with a quick swipe of his tongue over his finger, the man was relieved to find that he was downwind of the warg. He would not be scented during his approach and was free to observe as long as he could stay silent. This was an opportunity to examine one of his beasts up close! Well, not necessarily _close_ , but in person! Which was something almost no other authors could truthfully claim to have done.

A crackle of thunder boomed across the sky overhead, splitting the heavens open and pouring its contents on the forest below. Ruselm loved rain (especially the smell, it was so refreshing!) but he especially loved that the sudden downpour would help mask his scent even if the direction of the wind happened to change as it was so notorious for doing to travelers. The soft pellets of water first hit Ruselm's nose and forehead, but soon began to dampen his hair and clothes. It was cool but revitalizing.

He was unconcerned about the journal inside his coat, its leather binding was waterproofed and the pages were safe within. The thought of protecting the journal came first to Ruselm's mind but he knew, after a brief moment of thinking, that the act was unnecessary. It was out of harm's way. He, however, was not.

Ruselm was beside the steadily flowing water now, tucked behind the impossibly thick trunk of a tree whose impenetrable bark looked tougher than leather. He risked a quick peek around the tree, eyes immediately zeroing in on the wolf-like creature, rain pattering in his ears, only to widen his eyes. The beast before him was magnificent in an oddly gut-churning kind of way.

Nothing could truly capture the beauty of the warg who, after a moment of study, Ruselm knew had to be a female. She was much larger than her male counterpart would be and her pelt was lush, very clearly splendidly taken care of. Resplendent black eyes were scanning her surroundings, an eerie sort of magisterial attitude, as human as it was, filling her canine features as she examined the territory that belonged to her now. The warg's handsome russet coat shone, slicked wet with rain, and he could see through the deluge of heavenly water that she was clearly well fed.

 _On what_ , Ruselm's mind asked, _on what is she well fed?_

The author could not bring himself to answer his own curiosity, instead settling for ignoring it as it sat in the corner of his mind, untouched. He knew without questioning what the diet of a warg entailed: meat. Human, goat, horse, cow, cat — there was no restriction, the warg was a carnivorous creature who thrived on blood and bone. And Ruselm knew it, even if he wanted to exploit the innocence of ignorance.

Nevertheless, as he stared upon the beast with squinted eyes against the rain, Ruselm couldn't help but find himself electrified. He had finally seen his first beast with his own eyes!

Ruselm made mental notes on the warg's appearance, observations he would write later when pouring rain was not present to smudge the ink of his truths. He imagined the detailed drawing he would make of her in his bestiary, oh it would be quite the sight to see! Canine features, manlike eyes, shoulders positioned farther back than a wolf's, long and thick neck that was as big around as he, and claws so wickedly curved that Ruselm was certain they could peel his skin from his bones with ease. The thought excited him beyond reason. Just how _legendary_ was this warg?

He shifted his weight, leaning his shoulder further into the tree which he carefully hid behind. What he was unaware of was the stick that cracked under the pressure of his heel. The warg was a thing of nature's true pulchritude, of that Ruselm was positive, and of that fact, he found himself completely and wholly entranced.

Her dark eyes snapped toward the author's direction. They made eye contact for a split second before he ducked back behind the protection of the tree's thick trunk faster than a snake slithering into its hole.

 _She saw me_ , Ruselm's mind screamed. _She saw me! What's she going to do?_

The logical part of his brain was too busy calling him an absolute divvy (and all available variations of the insult; idiot, fool, even cabbagehead made it onto the list) to answer. The chorus of insults turned into a mess in his brain, half of it calling him stupid while the other half panicked and told him he needed to run as far away from here as he possibly could. After all, his brain said, if he didn't run, he'd be warg food.

Taking a chance to gauge the warg's position, Ruselm peeked from out behind the tree where he'd last held eye contact with the warg. The spot was abandoned.

Well, at least this way he'd be able to experience being a warg's prey! Ruselm tried to put a positive spin on this misfortunate turn of events, though his racing heart was quickly filling with dread that couldn't be pushed back down. He could learn their hunting patterns, he reasoned with himself. Learn how they move, how they track, how they fight. It would be beneficial for the... _accuracy_... of the bestiary!

"If I were a warg, a carnivorous dog with..."—he hated to say this, even to himself—"with a taste for human meat, what would I do first?" Ruselm muttered the words lowly under his breath, throwing his entire mind into the inquiry. His eyes scanned the trees around him, the rain doing quite a good job at shielding his vision farther than twenty feet on all sides of his position. Sometimes talking to himself was useful; it gave his brain a reason to shut up, anyways.

_What would I do first?_

"Get in a position to observe..." Ruselm found himself saying. He placed a hand over his brow to block the rain from dripping into his eyes, narrowing them to see his surroundings clearer.  
The way he had come from, a slightly worn foot trail the locals used when going to the inlet for fishing, seemed a logical place. Often, wolves could circle around to entrap their quarry. That's why she wasn't in front of him anymore and why he could feel violent eyes boring into his back every time he turned around to peer past the other side of the tree. This was making more sense the further Ruselm examined his situation.

When he felt hot breath on the back of his neck, Ruselm knew... he just knew he was in trouble.

_Shit._


	2. Fight of the Warg (Part Two)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy the Hamilton references, friends. I truly couldn't help myself.

**'SHIT' WAS POSSIBLY** the only viable word running through Ruselm's mind. He knew there wasn't much else he could do once the warg was behind him, breathing the smell of death onto the back of his neck. As soon as he turned to look back over his shoulder, the young man would find himself in a fight for his life so he continued to stare forward, towards the river. He had no idea how long the warg would wait like this, in this little cat and mouse game of theirs, but Ruselm had to push himself to think.

What else could he do?

Ruselm was cornered. With the beast at his back, there was nowhere to go. The tree he took shelter behind was on his right, another tree at his left. Ahead was the now-torrential river, behind was the monster. Her soft growl grew in volume, a reminder of the danger he'd willingly walked into.

What was it he'd said to Luvrad and Ben? _Congratulations on surviving, lads, wargs don't usually let their prey get away._ How ironic. Just fantastic.

If he ran now, the warg would be upon him in a matter of seconds, if he even managed to get a few feet ahead. That was a matter of receiving Lady Luck's blessing. He wasn't feeling particularly blessed at the moment. Or the other option, if he turned, he'd come face-to-face with the she-beast and be devoured and that would be the end of the adventurer extraordinaire he so aspired to become. That's it! That was the unfortunate end.

He might as well accept his fate now.

_Ruselm of Nazair_ , They'd say once he was gone. _Dead because of his own foolishness!_ Though, now that the wheels in his mind were finally turning after their barrage of creative insults at his intelligence, Ruselm began to think more and more about his options. He knew how crazy this thought was in his head, but... what else could he do? Running meant dying. Staying meant dying. Turning meant dying. Facing, however?

Well, he'd find that out for himself.

As slowly as he could move, inch by inch, Ruselm turned his head to face the she-warg behind him. The beast's dark manlike eyes glittered with human malice, her canine fangs and dagger-sharp teeth _were_ an ugly shade of pale yellow, as Ben had described, and the red stain of blood persisted even as saliva dripped from her teeth. Ruselm stared at the stains as rain continued to pour down on them, wondering briefly if his blood would soon mingle with the life-force of countless others this warg had killed.

She narrowed her eyes almost imperceptibly and was unaffected by the water streaming in rivulets down her muzzle, hot breath fanning over Ruselm's face. And, for the moment, he was still alive. Somehow.

The Nazairian tried to make himself look bigger, puffing out his chest and rising to his feet. Even standing, his head only came to the height of the warg's massive brown shoulder. She towered ominously over him as a lion above his prey. Her growl ripped through the air and was the only thing he could hear over the constant drum of rain in Ruselm's ears.

_Is this where I die?_

They stared at each other, eye-to-eye.

_Is this where it gets me?_

The warg pounced, a movement that happened so fast Ruselm barely had time to roll out of the way and escape her outstretched claws. His left shoulder began to burn but he didn't dare take the time to look at it, for fear of slowing down and losing his life as a result. For once in his miserable life, Ruselm found himself scared of the mess he'd gotten into. Death was a _real_ and imminent danger! If he didn't wise up soon—

She slammed snout-first into the tree he'd been hiding behind, a pained yowl escaping her throat as Ruselm took off in the opposite direction as fast as he could. The young author knew this warg would only be stunned for a few moments, although it granted him precious time that he didn't previously possess. He had to think, and fast.

Legs pumping as fast as he could get them to move, Ruselm bounded away from the river's edge and deeper into the forest he'd come from; jumping over a fallen log as he not-so skillfully lost the foot trail the locals had steadily worn into the earth, losing all sense of direction as adrenaline rushed through his veins faster than the river surging downstream. His heart was racing in his chest. His mind turned over itself. His breath came in gasps. The textile feeling in Ruselm's fingers faded as he could only stare forward, everything beyond his peripheral vision fading to complete darkness.

He was panicking.

The beast howled somewhere behind him. It was a promise of vengeance for the ache in her snout, and if he listened hard enough he could hear the warg gaining on him as she tore violently through the forest after him. After her big game, her quarry.

That's what he was. _Prey_. And the hunter was hot on his heels.

Ruselm slid under a half-rotten log that rested across another tree. The downpour of rain had turned the dirt soft and mushy underfoot by now. He slid quite easily, mud caking the bottom of his boots. Once he was clear of the log, Ruselm sprang upright and began running once more.

A resounding _crack!_ echoed throughout the forest as the she-warg, confident and supercilious, charged into the log he'd managed to slip under. She barreled her way through it, unfazed, completely shattering the wood before the immense power and strength that rested within her very bones. If he weren't fearing for his life, Ruselm would admire how unbothered the warg was after such an act but with her feverish barks and howls growing in volume, he couldn't focus on anything else.

He was running out of places to go. If Ruselm kept pushing forward, the warg would catch up. She'd eat him. If he turned left or right, there was no telling what was in either direction.

The village was not an option. He couldn't endanger the people there.

Where could he go? Where could he hide? How could he escape? His mind pushed for answers, fear high in his throat and heart beating a drum only he could hear.

No village, no trees, no caves would stop her from pursuing him. She would track him to the ends of the earth because _wargs don't usually let their prey get away_. Running meant dying. Hiding meant dying. Staying meant dying. Options were running out.

Ruselm couldn't catch his breath. His limbs were becoming tired, aching from the sudden exertion of the chase. He dashed between a thicket of trees that had grown particularly close together, hoping at the very least that the warg would have to go around in order to get to him and follow the path.

The sounds the beast was making, her growls, barks, and panting suddenly became quiet. Only the sound of the rain on the canopy above and ground surrounding him was heard.

He found a thick tree to hide behind if only to catch his breath for a moment, leaning his back against the rough bark wearily. His head rolled back and Ruselm closed his eyes, still not able to catch his breath. Why couldn't he breathe? _Gods above_ , why couldn't he breathe?

The forest had grown silent, the howling of the she-warg replaced by one long, mournful bay that echoed even over the euphony of the rainstorm. Ruselm didn't notice how silent it was at first, panting heavily, until he risked a glance behind him where the beast last was. And she was there all right; she was there and standing over her eerily limp body, blade of his sword coated in her sickly black blood, was a big lean, muscled man with unusually stark white hair who caught Ruselm's gaze immediately. He saw a traveler's black outfit of leather and light armor, two swords strapped to his back save for the one he held in his hand just now.

Ducking back behind the tree, he gulped for air. Ruselm still wasn't breathing properly. His head was spinning and buzzing at the same time, the sensation like an annoying fly near his ear that he couldn't shake away. He was acutely aware of the stranger's approaching footsteps, the rain beginning to lighten up to a small drizzle, and he didn't know what to do. Ruselm opened his mouth to form words from his racing thoughts but nothing came out.

His savior rounded the corner of the tree, amber catlike eyes narrowed into a hard scrutinization of Ruselm's disheveled appearance.

Startled, Ruselm reached out to push a hand between them. This stranger was unknown to the Nazairian, he didn't even know if he could be trusted. Right now, he desperately needed space. He needed time to recuperate if only his damned breath would catch!

As if sensing Ruselm's problem, the newcomer grabbed onto his outstretched hand, placing his own on Ruselm's right shoulder as if to steady him. The sky was darkening rapidly but in the dying light, the author caught sight of a wolf's head medallion hanging around this lovely stranger's neck; a witcher. He'd been saved by a witcher! He wanted to laugh at his luck but he quickly became dizzy and leaned further against the witcher.

"Breathe," the witcher instructed him. His voice was low-pitched and gruff as though it were rolled twice over in gravel and tough things like bark, or rocks. "You're hyperventilating. You need to calm down — I killed the warg. Breathe. You're safe now."

"Shit..." Ruselm tried to do as instructed. "My chest hurts!"

He closed his eyes and tried to focus on breathing. _In and out, Ruselm_ , his mind was instructing. _In and out_. The air was coming into his lungs easier now as his racing heart finally slowed and weariness filled his limbs. The lightheaded feeling vanished and Ruselm opened his eyes again, staring directly into the witcher's darkly magnificent eyes which so vividly reminded him of his childhood cat, Bliska.

Words suddenly became easier. "I..." he started but stopped, suddenly unable to continue. What was he to say? Gratitude was in order, of course, although Ruselm was all too embarrassed about needing to be saved. Had the gods above granted him this miracle? "What's your name?"

The witcher's expression remained stoic. "Geralt of Rivia." His answer was flawless, his Rivian accent authentic enough to fool anyone.

"Geralt..." Ruselm tested the name quietly before realizing he was still leaning against the witcher. He pulled back a step and noticed how his hands still shook from the excitement of the chase, his left shoulder beginning to throb and ache persistently. Ruselm tried not to let his eyes stray to the dead warg over Geralt's shoulder, though the curiosity to look burned itself into him. He kept his eyes on Geralt's. "Geralt, thank you. For saving my life. I owe you the deepest debt of gratitude."

"You owe me nothing," Geralt retracted his hand and sheathed his sword at his back in a single fluid movement.

"I owe you everything!" Ruselm effused assiduously as the witcher turned away from him. He followed. "I would be dead or, _well_ , just dead! If you hadn't shown up when you did, ha-ha!" The laughter escaped Ruselm's lips effortlessly, tumbling from him in an excited manner which was due to the adrenaline that was still keeping him on his feet as they spoke. "Thank the gods for that splendiferous, serendipitous occurrence!"

Geralt's eyes scanned the warg laying dead in front of them. The sight of her made Ruselm pause, a glimmer of doubt running through his body. Such a majestic beast... dead. Even if she had nearly consumed him for her own driving hunger, the scene of her uncouth death made Ruselm hesitate.

The witcher picked up on his silence.

"Why were you out here?"

Ruselm swallowed thickly, half-tempted to lie and conceal the truth that he was an idiot. "I was, er, well you see—"

Geralt turned ever so slowly to look at him, fixing the Nazairian with an unamused gaze. He stood at least a whole head taller than Ruselm and his hulking mass was intimidating. The author suddenly began to question if it was wise to lie to such an unnerving presence; one that had saved his life, at that. The lie looked suddenly unappealing. What was he thinking?

"I came to see the warg."

The witcher scoffed once. Rolled his eyes. "That was moronic."

"Well, I know that now!" Ruselm retorted, heat rising up the back of his neck. He crossed his arms but winced when the cuts on his left shoulder protested at the movement, wailing in pain. "Ouch, shit!"  
Geralt's rigid glare was focused on the author again as he looked down at his shoulder, attention drawn back onto him at the sound of Ruselm's discomfort. Blood oozed silently out of the wounds which were three long and jagged claw marks the warg had managed to carve into his olive skin. It looked, and felt, painful. Ruselm was prodding gingerly at his broken skin when Geralt approached and shoved a white cloth over the wounds.

He squeaked quietly but withered under the witcher's firm gaze and fell silent.

With the soft patter of the light drizzle on the canopy, the world itself was nearly noiseless between Geralt and Ruselm until the witcher opened his mouth to speak more than he had since he'd encountered the warg crashing through the trees to get to Ruselm. His voice was sharp and reprimanding, condescending in a way that the young Nazairian supposed he rightfully deserved, as Geralt kept the cloth pressed against his injured shoulder with unyielding pressure.

"You're lucky you've only gotten away with a scrape like this. Wargs don't stop!" Geralt snapped. He wouldn't look at Ruselm's face. "Wargs are relentless hunters who have no care if you live or die, they only hope it is they who be granted the pleasure to end your life. All for the better for them; they enjoy playing with _live prey_. I don't know if you're stupid or just plain idiotic but dying is easy! Living is harder. If you want to show your gratitude to me, do me a favor and keep yourself alive, will you? Accomplish something, I don't care, just stop being so damned foolish."  
Ruselm ducked his head, unable to look anywhere near the witcher.

His cheeks burned. He knew exactly what Geralt was saying, and that it was true. The facts didn't comfort Ruselm, though, he still felt abashed that this absolute stranger was sitting here telling him these things when he _already knew_. The old saying among the elderly townswomen is that hindsight appears as near-perfect vision. Looking back, Ruselm could see how his actions were reckless and misguided.

Facing Death and staring into her black eyes had an unusual way of entirely changing the priorities of the aspirant.

"I'll be more careful in the future," Ruselm found himself saying. He looked up into Geralt's amber eyes, awed at their distinctive qualities. These were eyes he had seen in his dreams; the reminder bewildered him. "I'm Ruselm of Nazair."

Geralt raised an eyebrow. "I don't recall asking."

"There was no need." He shrugged with only his right shoulder, being careful not to move his left while the stalwart witcher lifted the edge of the blood-soaked cloth to peer at his wounds beneath. The bleeding had lessened but Ruselm's head still spun. The sight of his own blood wasn't helping, either.

"Hmm." The witcher hummed but remained otherwise mute.

Ruselm wondered briefly if the conversation with Geralt was always this one-sided and dry. He decided to try again for his curiosity about this witcher, this savior of his, was growing tenfold with every second that passed between them. He wanted to learn everything he could about this mysterious figure who kept his eyes averted.

"You're a witcher."

A statement, not a question. Geralt only nodded once.

"So you must know everything there is to know about monsters, then." Another nod. "And beasts."

Geralt sighed deeply through his nose, taking a controlled breath. "Where are you going with this?"

Ruselm grinned slightly, the action a suspicious little thing to the witcher that promised trouble to come. He tilted his head to the side and ran a hand through his shoulder-length black hair. "I'm a writer," he explained to Geralt, watching as understanding dawned in his eyes. "I wasn't entirely foolish when I had the mind to come out here. It wasn't for entertainment, it was for research."

"You're writing a bestiary." Geralt pieced the clues together easily, eyes flickering down to Ruselm's hands. His olive fingers were slim and elegant, fingers that were used to wielding a quill and writing faster than should be humanly possible. The witcher's own curiosity was making an appearance now. "Why?"

"I have very good reason," Ruselm inclined his head. "You've surely read the common folk's bestiary?"

"Of course."

"To put it politely: it's shit." This comment earned a small snort of amusement from Geralt. Ruselm's grin only grew at the encouragement. "It is! You find it funny because it's true. Well, not mine. Mine will be nothing like that, just you wait, Geralt of Rivia. Someday you will pick up my bestiary and you will realize you've saved me for a good reason!"

Geralt checked his shoulder again, listening mutely before pulling away from the wound. Blood had stopped gushing out but the gashes were deep enough that stitches would be a necessary precaution. The witcher pointed a finger at his shoulder. "Go back to the village and see a healer. The warg cut you deeply."

Ruselm shifted slightly, glancing back at the dead warg. "I can't leave now!" He protested. "I have to draw her, examine her more closely. There's more to learn than what's on the surface."  
The white-haired man crossed his arms cynically. "You'll pass out before that happens."

"Then maybe you should stay with me to make sure I don't die."

"That's not my responsibility." Geralt frowned slightly, the corners of his lips being pulled downward with displeasure.

Ruselm shrugged but walked unsteadily towards the warg where she lay. He leaned down and reached out a hand to rest on her unmoving side, admiring with appreciation how soft but tough her handsome russet coat of fur was against his palm. What a gorgeous creature.

Her passing was a loss to the world that only few could see. Ruselm felt as if he would be the only one saddened by her passing. After all, hadn't he been trespassing onto her territory? Hadn't he been the one, and not the warg, who was poking his nose where it didn't belong? Isn't that what the villagers and travelers were doing, too? He sighed softly and sank to his knees.

_She knew no other way of life_ , Ruselm's mind whispered. _And now she'll rest. She will know peace; no hunger, no anger, no fear. Only peace._

At least now the she-warg could harm no more innocent villagers or guarded men like Ben and Luvrad, who had managed to escape her wrath but had inevitably brought about her death. If Ruselm had not gone out to seek the wolf-like creature, then the gods above would not have been made to send Geralt to save him; thus, her life would not have been so violently vanquished.  
Either way, the warg would end up inside of the bestiary.

Ruselm, being careful of his shoulder, pulled his leather-bound journal from the depths of his brown coat, half-surprised to see that it was still with him even after the running and jumping and sliding about he'd had to do in order to escape the jaws of death. Behind him, Geralt groaned slightly and walked closer to stand just behind the olive-skinned Nazairian. He stopped behind Ruselm's shoulder, staring down at the pages as he flipped through them.

"You're really going to sit here and draw the beast?"

Without a word, Ruselm nodded and, with a flourish, produced his white quill and inkwell. When the witcher opened his mouth to speak, he abruptly closed it and uncrossed his arms. He leaned on a tree beside them, watching in silence as Ruselm crafted the most intricately detailed and delicate depiction of a warg that he had ever laid eyes on.


	3. Echinops

**ALMOST GREEDILY, RUSELM** tore the paper from its place on the town's notice board so the material crinkled between his fingers. He drank in the hastily drawn image of the little beast rumored to be living in the woods around Sodden, a small thing that couldn't possibly be causing any of the village's problems but was considered a nuisance nonetheless for his thievish escapades. The locals had nicknamed this creature Obil, 'the Carrot-Stealing Devil.' It was more of a title than a nickname when Ruselm thought about the matter.

Obil was a member of the echinopsae family, which further explained him and his quirks, moreso than Ruselm could have figured out on his own without knowing the species he was dealing with. Echinops were kin of hedgehogs and covered in very long razor-sharp spines that, when threatened, were rumored to be able to shoot up to ten paces away. Ruselm had heard stories of men running into echinopsae before, of how they'd seen the spines shatter on impact and watched as the pieces dug infinitely deeper into their bodies to inflict the maximum damage.

Knowing the bashful nature of the echinops, Ruselm was curious as to how this creature could possibly cause a dog's "ear to have a bloody hole" when the echinopsae only attacked if threatened and endangered. Their spines are so long that when these creatures are immobile, they resemble clumps of grass; that's how reclusive they generally are.

It didn't make sense that an echinops would suddenly attack, unprovoked, as these accounts on the notice board seemed to indicate.

 _Sure, he steals their carrots_ , Ruselm reasoned with himself. _But that just means he's hungry. What if food in the forest is dwindling? What if he's stocking up? There's nothing wrong with that._

A massive shoulder bumps into Ruselm's; the one the she-warg had cut into as if he were as malleable as a tuft of cotton, and the pain angrily shot up his neck. It had been less than a week since the incident in the forest, and a day since Geralt of Rivia had departed from Sodden's area, heading south much to Ruselm's displeasure and near-constant begging of the witcher to stay and divulge his witcher's secrets. The final straw had been, according to Geralt, seeing Ruselm pester passing merchants day in and out. Nevertheless, his shoulder was still tender and rapidly changed his mood.

He turned faster than a snake striking the unsuspecting hand and snapped fearlessly with a wounded voice at the colossal man who'd ran into him. "Excuse me, good sir, but kindly watch where you walk!"  


The man turned back to Ruselm. His arms were as large as the Nazairian's head, chest broad and rippling with ironlike muscle, and he stood a whole head and a half taller than Ruselm. The impolite man towered over him, crossing his arms over his chest. They were cords of pure muscle, Ruselm supposed he must work in a forge or perhaps he was a blacksmith but either way he could easily crush him under one hand.

"Kindly watch where ya stand, Nazairian," his Kovirian accent was thick, his voice brusque.

"I am simply examining this notice from the board, it is not I who is in the wrong here," Ruselm pointed out. He noticed a mighty war-hammer hanging faithfully from the man's belt. Maybe he was more than a blacksmith? Anger suddenly forgotten and replaced with curiosity, Ruselm leaned forward in awe. "Excuse me, what's that fine weapon at your side?"

The man seemed surprised by his question but pulled it from his belt, holding it in the space between them so Ruselm could examine it. "This beauty?" He asked.

Ruselm nodded.

"I made 'er myself," the Kovirian proudly proclaimed, hint of a pleased smirk tugging the corners of his lips upwards. "A hammer made of steel and lined with the hard edge of diamond. Possibly the best I've ever made."

The author stood, awestruck, and reached out a tentative olive hand to touch the cool edge of the metal where diamond and steel met, mingled, and married. It was sharp to the touch, but Ruselm did not cut himself, he was careful. "It is the most gorgeous weapon I have ever laid my eyes upon!" He exclaimed with a small measure of excitement. "This is a fine work of craftsmanship, I congratulate you on your work!"

He inclined his head. "Thank ya, Nazairian."

"My name is Ruselm," the author bowed his head in way of greeting. He was growing rather fond of the large man even if they'd come off to a difficult start. There was something appealing about his blunt personality Ruselm couldn't quite place his finger on. It was refreshing! "You're welcome...?" Ruselm trailed off, hoping to be given a name for a face.

The man placed his hammer at his side once more, extending a calloused hand between them. His forearm was thick and edged with defined lines, twice the size of Ruselm's. His slightly cynical face was replaced now with a warm smile. "Vyrrentz," he introduced himself proudly. "Cadmin Vyrrentz. I hope ya will accept my sincerest apology, Ruselm of Nazair, I wasn't payin' attention and reacted poorly. It's not often," Cadmin admitted, "that someone challenges me. I'm far too big."

Ruselm waved Cadmin off, his own face brightening with a mixture of joy and curiosity as he took the Kovirian's hard hand in his own. "It's nothing. I am perfectly able to understand your viewpoint, honorable Cadmin. What has brought you here to Sodden?"

"Work." Cadmin let the word fall flat, as though he were displeased with it but attempting to cover the fact. He took his hand back and allowed it to rest at his side.

"Ahh," Ruselm nodded. He'd figured as much. Sodden was brimming constantly with colorful characters who came and went like the tides, their business usually pertaining to their livelihood. "What work would that be? Are you a blacksmith? Forge worker?"

Cadmin blew a puff of air from his cheeks. "Somethin' along those lines."

_Curious._

Ruselm pointed a slender finger over Cadmin's shoulder. "Care to get a drink with me? I was thinking of going and talking to some travelers who've wandered here while I'm in. You could join me if you like."

His newfound friend considered the offer for a moment, brow furrowing as the cogs turned in his mind. Ruselm only had to wait for a few seconds. "Why not?" Cadmin shrugged and turned to lead the way to the Pig's Arse Tavern. That was actually the name— _Pig's Arse_. Lovely place. "I fancy a strong ale while I'm waiting."

"Waiting for—?"

There it was; Ruselm couldn't turn off his curiosity. His questions came one after the other endlessly, aiming to satisfy the wondrous nature he'd had since childhood. The nature that would (and still did, even now!) get him into countless spires of trouble and mischief with Maurits (well... _without_ Maurits in his adulthood), who had decidedly been the opposite by preferring to let matters lie where they came from and not inquire more about them. Maurits accepted things as they were, but Ruselm always had to find a deeper meaning.

Cadmin didn't seem to mind, though. Laughter rose from his chest, a deep sound that warmed the writer more than he'd suspected it would. "Yer a questionin' sort, aren't ya?" Cadmin looked down at Ruselm as they came to the front doors of the Pig's Arse.

He opened the peeling door on the right for the both of them, gesturing for Ruselm to enter first.

"It seems to get things done," Ruselm nodded his thanks and stepped into the tavern. Being as it was fairly early in the day, there were few people inside except drunkards and travelers who had just come through the forest and into the village. Those were the people he was hoping to run into! The Pig's Arse was a cozy tavern whose fireplace was always crackling and whose ale was always frothy. Several tables were open for seating and a hallway in the back led to rooms which could be bought for the nights. 

Three men sat at one of the tables near the fireplace, tankards in hand, heads bent close together as they talked in quiet tones. They wore brightly colored, expensive clothing and that was all the evidence Ruselm needed to see before determining that these were travelers he hadn't bothered yet. Their clothing seemed to indicate they came from the south. With a quick jerk of his head, Ruselm indicated the whispering men to Cadmin.

"See them?" Ruselm asked.

Cadmin grunted in the affirmative, eyes flickering briefly to the trio. The unlikely pair approached the Pig Arse's owner, a man with severely squished features and each ordered a cold tankard of his best ale. He, either by accident or miracle, looked like a pig; small nose, beady black eyes, skin flushed pink from the heat inside of the tavern, thick neck and a heavyset body. He was unshaven. The owner disappeared for a moment to get their drinks.

"I'm going to interview them!" Ruselm proclaimed in a volume only Cadmin could hear. "They look disturbed, do they not? They've seen something in the forest, I'd wager."

"Oh?" Cadmin tilted his head in consideration. "And ya do this normally? Interview people about things they've seen?"

Ruselm grinned cheekily. "About _beasts_ they've seen," he corrected. "Beasts and monsters. I'm a writer, and I'm going to write the best collection of reliable information you've ever seen about these dangers to humanity, just you wait, my friend, one day you'll be seeing my bestiary and wondering what I'll do next."

"Do you even know what you'll do next?" The Kovirian sounded genuinely curious in his question when the tavern owner returned, tankards in hand. He slid them across the counter as Cadmin tossed a few coins at the man, gesturing for Ruselm to put his coin purse away.

"No need, I'm paying this time."

"Well, thank you!" Ruselm beamed happily. He led them over to a table on the other side of the Pig's Arse so they weren't unnecessarily close to the trio of men. "I'm unsure what will happen after my bestiary's finally completed."—he mused thus—"I assume I'll be much older then, won't I? None will want to marry an old author, will they? I'll probably settle somewhere new, or I suppose I could continue looking for adventure somewhere. I will know much more by then." Ruselm sighs and sips his ale slowly before continuing. "Or, maybe I'll just be dead. Who's to say? The bestiary might never get finished."  


Cadmin waved Ruselm's words off, scoffing. "Ahh, that's not true and ya know it! Ye'll live to see yer dreams fulfilled and ye'll find yourself a pretty girl..." he trailed off, raising his own tankard wordlessly as though for a toast.

Ruselm's nose crinkled as he made a face. He shrugged slightly, shoulder beginning to ache with the small movement. "I'm not sure, Cadmin."

"Well if it's not a woman in the cards for ya," Cadmin's drink sloshed around as he took a noisy sip and smacked his lips a little. "Then I'm sure ye'll get yerself a real striking man who's willing to put up with yer questionin'. There's some poor bastard out there for every other poor bastard, or so me mum says!"

The two shared a good laugh after that comment, Ruselm slightly shaking his head. He was entirely unsure about his future after the book was completed and the more thought he put to the matter, the more fearful he became of the 'after' that was supposed to come when his dream was lived to its max. What was 'after' supposed to consist of? What did 'after' even mean? What if he wasn't happy in this 'after' and he was better off in the 'now' or 'before'? Questions swirled blindingly in his mind, one chasing the other before becoming terrorized by a third. It was similar to a cat stalking a mouse with a dog thrown somewhere in the mix.

Their talk was bringing forth memories of Ruselm's childhood that he had hoped would die in the past, where they belonged. Alas, nothing could stop his mind from the retelling of words his father used to repeat over and over like a mantra that would banish his inner demons: _You'll get saddled with things you don't want, time and again, but they are your burden to bear._ They are your burden to bear.

What the hell did that mean? And why was he suddenly thinking of it?

Ruselm had fallen unusually silent, echoes of his adolescence in his ears, when Cadmin waved a hand half in front of his face. He was vaguely aware of the Kovirian saying his name but an image in his mind's eye made him pause. It was half a second, maybe less.

The beautiful olive face of a woman long dead in both memory and life—his mother. He could remember without remembering; the tenderness of her touch, the softness in her voice, and the love she possessed even when the monsters tore into her while stealing her away from her only son.

This ghost of a memory startled Ruselm. It had come from the depths of his mind, buried in dust and hidden under shadows long forgotten as though it could be permanently banished if he ignored the memory for long enough.

"Ruselm?"

He looked up to his Kovirian friend, met with a face of concern. "Yes? Are you all right?"

Cadmin frowned for the first time since they'd met. "I should be asking ya that myself," he stated with no small measure of suspicion and worry. "What happened with ya there? It was like ya couldn't hear me or somethin'."

"I'll be honest with you, Cadmin," Ruselm leaned back in his chair. He'd forgotten he was already sitting, the wooden seat was hard enough that it made his bottom ache and beg to stand to stretch his legs. "I really didn't. I'm fine though, there's no need to worry, I just remembered something I haven't thought about in a very, very long time, that's all."

"Ah. Me mum says that's the whispers of the dead gettin' to ya," Cadmin explained with an air of casualty that was hard to place properly in this conversation, as though he were unworried by the implications. "Says it's their way of tryin' to make you realize somethin'... but she's crazier than a bat out of hell!" He chortled with laughter. "I try not to listen to her crazy whisperin' sometimes."

"Maybe there's a grain of truth to what she says," Ruselm mused pensively, a frown tugging at his lips like grey storm clouds darkening the brightness of a blue sky. It was thoughtful. Hopeful. Anxious. Every emotion at once and none at all, it was very difficult for Cadmin to determine what was going through Ruselm's mind.

Cadmin shrugged and glanced over his shoulder at the small group of men the pair had initially discussed. He eyed them up and down. "They're from far south," the Kovirian remarked.  
Ruselm hummed. "That's right, my friend."

"What do ya reckon they've seen in those woods of yers?" Cadmin returned his ever-prodding eyes to Ruselm's own.

"Perhaps they've caught sight of my echinops!" He suddenly grinned at the large man before him. The look was charming and suave, one he often pulled out when he wanted to approach others and begin asking his questions. After all, who could resist Ruselm's handsome face? He was born with it for a reason. "There's only one way to find out what exactly has them in such a state, that's by asking. You're free to wait here if you so choose, unless you'd like to accompany me?"

Cadmin snorted and drank more ale. "I'll be watchin' ya from here. Quite like to see this magic myself, if ya don't mind."

"Not at all."

Ruselm stood from their table, leaving his tankard behind to keep his hands free. He straightened his posture and ran a steady hand through the tendrils of shoulder-length black hair that framed his face. His father had always dogged him about cutting it short but Ruselm rather enjoyed longer hair, it made him feel different and happy. Mustering the warmest, most charming, charismatic smile he could, Ruselm approached the trio of men with a confident stride.

 _You can do this_ , he told himself. _You can do this, just talk to them normally. Keep the conversation brief and be sure to include all of them at different times. Let them do the talking._

Each man was of different size. One, sitting closest to the fire, was a burly sort with brown hair cut so close to the scalp it looked as if his hair was nonexistent. His yellow robe reflected wealth and his jovial personality in comparison to the deep red his companion sitting directly next to him was wearing. This second man had keen green eyes and a mop of curls on top of his head; he was so gangly and thin that Ruselm was scared the slightest gust of wind from opening a door or window would blow him away. The last man sat across from his companions, back to Ruselm.

He had graying hair and wrinkles that lined the heart-shape of his angular face. A proud, hooked nose dominated his visage and was the most notable attribute of his physical appearance. Sharp blue eyes turned to glare from over the older man's shoulder as Ruselm stopped by their table, smile unwavering.

"A good afternoon, gentlemen!" said Ruselm with no small measure of excitement.

"Aye," the stranger wearing yellow nodded and raised his earthenware cup in Ruselm's direction. "Indeed it is, good sir! What's brought you over to us? Are you interested in trading?"

Ruselm politely held a hand up in refusal. "Nay. I've not the coin to purchase any of your delightful wares, sadly."

"Sadly," the man in yellow echoed but drank.

"If you've not come to trade, then what have you come for?" Ruselm turned his gaze to the oldest man with silver hair. The blue eyes that met his were cynical with the experience that comes with age. He suddenly had the urge to gain this elder man's approval.

"I have simply come to talk." Ruselm explained. He gestured to the seat beside the old man. "May I sit with you kind gentlemen?"

The old man grunted, which Ruselm took as permission to sit. He situated himself and folded his hands on the table in front of him, glancing between the three travelers.

"Well?" The elder prodded.

"I was curious," started Ruselm, "about your whispering going on over here. You all looked very disturbed before I came over. Has something amiss happened during your time at Sodden?"

Telling glances were shared across the table. There were conversations being had between the men without so much as a word, conversations Ruselm was not privy to. Very suddenly, a new voice drew the Nazairian's curious gaze, belonging to the willowy young man wearing red. "Well, not necessarily..."

Ruselm tilted his head with polite interest.

"We were in the forest, you see," said the man in yellow. He continued after his friend. "When we came across a very odd creature. He was about as big as Stalmand's head"—he gestured to the old man—"but he had these long spikes that looked like blades of grass all over him!"

"Nearly stepped on him, I did," the man in red was speaking again. His voice was distinctly higher in pitch than the others, but he spoke with the most fear. "Came across the path in front of us, out of nowhere. There was a carrot between his teeth, isn't that right, Jeroen?"

Jeroen, the jovial man with bright eyes and yellow robes, nodded quickly. He leaned further across the table, his large belly getting in the way, not that he noticed. "That's right! It was a carrot. Fresh out of the dirt. We figured he must've stolen it."

Ruselm had a feeling he knew where the story was going. It made his stomach churn with sickness. He posed the question he wasn't sure he wanted the answer to: "And after running into this magnificent creature—he was an echinops, gentlemen—what did you do?"

Stalmand drank long from his cup, the other men falling silent with their eyes downcast. Even Jeroen had the decency to look sad. He slammed the cup down hard and Ruselm flinched.

"Killed it."

Voice tight with emotion he didn't want to show, Ruselm struggled to keep himself and his facial expression polite. "Why would you kill him?" He asked, hurt. "Obil was a kind and gentle creature, he was only shy. He never tried to cause trouble."

"That _thing_ was a nuisance," Stalmand shrugged as though he were unbothered. Ruselm suddenly wanted to strangle him but he knew that would solve nothing. Politely trying to hide his anger, Ruselm brought his hands to his lap where he could clench them into fists without being seen. "Heard about the villager's having problems with it—and those spines of his are worth good money! So I killed it. Stomped his head under my boot, his skull cracked as though it were cheese. We're getting paid later for killing it and we're going to take its spines to sell in Cintra."

He couldn't take this anymore.

Ruselm suddenly stood from the table. "Excuse me, gentlemen, but I have other business I must attend to. I bid you all a good day."

Jeroen waved at him, a sad little smile fixed on his face, like he wished he could leave with Ruselm. Stalmand, on the other side of the coin, paid him no attention and stared into the fireplace, his eyes cold and hollow. The unnamed man in red nodded but kept his eyes downcast at his lap, the tips of his ears turning red with clear embarrassment. It was not the other men that troubled Ruselm, it was Stalmand.

Stalmand and his cruelty, his unkindness, his barbaric description of how he put down Obil.

 _Bastards!_ His mind screamed. _Bastards, the lot of them! Killing the shyest creature for profit? How low has humanity gotten?_ He wanted to rage and destroy things with his bare hands, namely Stalmand's wrinkled face, but violence would get him nowhere and he knew it.

Without a further word, Ruselm left the Pig's Arse and stepped into the cool afternoon air, Cadmin hurrying to stand and follow behind.


	4. Rise of the White Wolf

**GERALT FORCED DOWN** another potion, all too used to the acrid taste that washed over his tongue and coated the back of his throat. Almost immediately after he had swallowed, the effects were coursing through his veins and sharpening his eyesight, giving him the best vision to see even in the darkness night blanketed over the tireless land. The starry sky was clear, full moon shining down on the open field before him as he barreled into the greensward and ran like hell to the epicenter before planting his feet, turning and facing the monster that had dared follow a witcher into an even arena.

He had nothing left but to hang fire while the brute caught up to him. The waiting gave Geralt a chance to catch his breath, at the very least.

And the ground rumbled slowly underfoot, one solid temblor of the earth after the other. Even the most negligible tremors felt like earthquakes to the witcher's sensitive faculties. Shake, shake, shake. The walking pattern of the troll easily gave away his position, though every so often the ground would quake even more to indicate that the beast had tripped and fallen over something. This particular troll was, as Geralt had come to find out, as clumsy as they came.

The monster could track him by his smell alone, which Geralt's plan relied on, but the troll was dumb and fat and slow; quite a poor excuse for a sentient being if Geralt had ever seen one and he had seen a lot. Most trolls were slightly above the level of this particular one's intelligence, and the witcher had tried reasoning with it but even that was beyond the troll's simplest capabilities. To put it simply, he was extremely stupid.

However, all of these disadvantages worked in the witcher's favor. This monster would be an entirely effortless kill. He'd get paid for taking care of the pest, everyone would go home happy and, most importantly, he would be mercifully paid, for once, in exchange for a job well done. Business as of late had been tough. Even after saving that stupid Nazairian, Geralt knew he should've taken that life debt and exchanged it for coin. Instead, he'd had to go and be magnanimous as if he had the authority to be.

How would he live otherwise? Nothing in any region was free, especially not for a witcher.

Geralt situated his feet into a wider platform, left foot farther back than the right, his shoulders down and chin held high. He braced himself, sword in the low guard position down and the pommel level with his hips, the gleaming tip of the steel sword at eye-level. And then he became absolutely still.

He had to wait for it.

The troll, whose name he had learned to be Boshe, wouldn't have been plastered all over the proclamation at the crossroad between Balès and Blaviken if he hadn't developed a taste for the flesh of innocent children who happened upon his bridge. The villagers of both country towns had made the right decision in seeking help for the trouble that was plaguing them for the past year. Their children were disappearing, their youth were being devoured and it was, for once, not worth the price of the troll repairing the bridge he had built.

Because Geralt had been turned down before for that very reason. He would offer his services to the townspeople, asking how much he would get for the troll under the bridge who terrorized and made travelers pay his toll; they'd be appalled. They'd tell him it was far cheaper to pay the troll's toll than to manage the upkeep of the bridge themselves. Besides, they told Geralt, the troll loves his bridge! It's his work of supreme craftsmanship. And it was for this reason that the witcher was beginning to feel neglected.

For once in what felt like an eternity (besides saving that rather handsome man from the warg mere days ago) Geralt was needed again and it was time for him to do his job. As a monster slayer he was taught how to put down the brutes he went after, but he had also been taught the value of giving them second chances and of curing them where possible. In lieu of the slaying, Geralt had talked with Boshe for nearly an hour but the troll either didn't care what he had to say or he was just too dimwitted to be reasoned with.

Nobody would be able to say he hadn't tried, at least.

The part that comes after reason is gone is the killing. And Geralt is very good at killing. He always has been. He did not relish it, as some witchers did, but he took it as a necessary action that would prevent a lot of evil in the world if he weren't there to put an end to it. There were certain ways you had to justify the things you did in order to make yourself feel more human.

Rumbling under his feet, Geralt could feel the troll coming ever closer, trembling step by step. Trolls are vaguely humanlike in their appearance and in the sense that they were sentient enough and intelligent enough (generally) to have a coherent conversation with but the resemblances don't necessarily end there. Most have the taste for human flesh, or _had_ , as Geralt keeps finding, and trolls mate for life in the way that eagles or other birds do. They can speak the common tongue, though not very colorfully, and they love—more than living itself—building bridges.

According to legend, trolls are creatures born of earth and their body is made of rock. These same legends say they hate sunlight, which kills them by turning them into inanimate stone, so inferring that trolls can only subsist at night.

_Utter bullshit_ , Geralt wanted to scoff at the thought.

Trolls prefer day to night. Why? Because they're so clumsy and foolish that they stumble on the littlest of things like pebbles or stones in the dark and they spill their beloved vodka everywhere. Their skin, in contrast with the legends, is hard like stone but it is _not_ stone. They are not of the earth in the sense that they are composed of earth. Beneath their stonelike skin are muscles and bones and a heart that pumps blood throughout their body.

Despite the things those full of nothing but spite would say, trolls also have feelings. They aren't very adept at expressing them, but they do exist. And the only thing they love more than their precious bridges? Their alcohol, a fondness Geralt had no problem relating to. They were particularly engrossed with the strongest brews, possibly because their bodies are so large that only colossal quantities of the most potent alcohol, which they sometimes take as their toll, can affect them.

Boshe reeked of Temerian vodka, which Geralt was sure was his favorite. He could smell it even without his enhanced senses from more than a mile away.

A few more tremors and Geralt could see, with squinted eyes, Boshe at the edge of the treeline before which sprawled the open field. The troll was at least two times bigger than Geralt; tall, thick arms and legs, his trunk as wide as the very trees he stood just slightly behind. Those beady eyes of his were staring hard; Boshe was thinking as if his life depended on it. Which it did. Thinking was something the witcher suspected he didn't do often (like how he'd suspected with the Nazairian in the case of the warg, something he still couldn't get out of his mind) unless to trick a child into coming closer so he could devour them.

_Typical_ , Geralt thought to himself. He forced his inner voice to become silent. _You think to commit murder and at no other time except to save your own skin._

Before he could make a single move, Boshe leaned down to pick up a large rock the size of a small boulder from behind the trees with both hands. He lifted it and began to spin around in the same spot, twirling on his heels and gaining momentum with every step until he was going faster and faster. The troll released the boulder and Geralt could suddenly hear it whining in the air as it hurtled closer.

"Shit."

Geralt rolled to his immediate left, moving in time to avoid being flattened by the flying rock. Boshe picked up another and repeated the process as Geralt sprang up onto his feet and sprinted as fast as he could to get to the troll before the fight got out of hand and the scales were tipped. Trolls, no matter how dumb or brutish, were still deadly and not to be underestimated. His countless years of training were finally coming into play as instinct and would be the deadly factor to end this fight the troll hadn't counted on.

Boulder flying over his head, Geralt was finally close enough to see the features of Boshe's ugly face.

Beady black eyes were glaring down at him, squashed nose barely visible on his face. Boshe was clearly unhappy. His hands were large enough to wrap around Geralt's head and smother him and his feet were far too pudgy and far too wide; making it no surprise that he tripped over any little nuisance and every little obstacle like every other troll of his gargantuan stature.

Geralt sneered at the troll. They were close enough for the witcher to reach out with the tip of his sword and touch Boshe's skin. Maybe pierce it if he tried hard enough.

"This is your last chance, Boshe. I don't have to kill you if you leave to never return. Go to the mountains, hide yourself away where people will never cross paths with you again."

Boshe grunted, a guttural sound that came from high in his throat. "No!" He shook his head. "No hide!"

"Then I _will_ kill you," Geralt promised. He stated this as mere fact, heartbeat steady and true with his eerily quiet voice that caused many to shudder. He breathed in and out, nice and controlled. "Once we fight, I am not stopping until you're dead."

"I know." Boshe growled and jumped faster than a snake striking at Geralt, freakishly huge hands outstretched to grab the witcher from his spot. If he were to blink, the movement would be missed. The fight was suddenly on and somebody was going to die. It was not going to be Geralt, he knew that for sure. He would fight like hell before he let himself die.

Geralt rolled forward between the troll's legs, coming up just behind him with his sword at the ready. Boshe was too slow in the head to realize that Geralt had disappeared right from under him, and was looking about this way and that to discern where the witcher had gone off to. If he were a sadist, Geralt would find this part of the conflict enjoyable.

He wasn't.

He was rather tired, actually. The shadows under his eyes had grown deeper that each night passed without restful sleep and he had grown only more irritable still.

Wordlessly, Geralt spun around and thrust the tip of his steel sword deep into Boshe's spine. The edge of the blade, which he'd prepared before initially confronting the troll, was coated in a deadly venom taken from an arachas; a large spiderlike creature whose venom was extremely potent even to the touch. He'd been careful when prepping the blade but trolls, as the witchers had discovered countless decades ago, were especially susceptible to its devastating effects.

Boshe wailed from the pain, a low mournful howling which rivaled that of a wolf's, reaching his hands behind himself to claw helplessly at the blade lodged into his back before falling face down in the dirt with a heavy thud. He could no longer stand.

The arachas venom worked quickly and efficiently. The sword did its job of paralyzing him from the waist down, rendering his legs forevermore useless. And Geralt had but only a few moments to wait until the venom reached Boshe's heart and killed him, ending the troll's reign of terror and loathing. In a way, he felt a tug in the bottom of his stomach at seeing the troll crying like a baby from the pain. Despite how truly disgusting and evil Boshe was, Geralt couldn't bring himself to find pleasure at Boshe's expense.

He grimaced and, being volant, pulled the sword from Boshe's spine where it was faithfully lodged, the handle calling to him with soft whispers.

Geralt watched as blood, black in the darkness that shrouded the land with the sun below the horizon and the moon in its place, dripped from his blade and left round little droplets to absorb in the earth below his boots. He walked around Boshe's body to crouch near his head where the troll was trying to speak, his words a blubbering mess which only his witcher could even begin to comprehend.

"I - I..." Boshe was breathing heavily, eyes closed.

He leaned closer. Listened.

"I'm sorry... White Wolf." The troll opened his eyes and looked up at Geralt from the ground. There was an innocence in his eyes that hadn't existed just a few moments before; an innocence of his existence that stood at the core of his being. He was a simple creature, with terrible desires. His death would be equal to putting down a rabid animal. "I'm sorry."

The witcher considered Boshe's words.

He sighed a little sigh and nodded, once, then stood again. "I know." Geralt brought the tip of his sword to the space between Boshe's eyes, forcing the sword forward into his brain until the troll was dead. The killing was finally done.

He'd given Boshe one last mercy.

Time to return to Balès and collect his reward. Then it would be onward to Blaviken for him.


	5. To Depart, Happily

**RUSELM WAS SHAKING** with unspent anger. Standing outside of the tavern away from those men helped him in remaining calm, but only barely. It was Cadmin's presence that gave him the push he needed to take a slow, deep and controlled breath. His new friend came to stand just beside him, resting a heavy hand on his shoulder. The village was teeming with morning life that ignored the two men, passing them by. 

"Are ya all right there, Ruselm?"

He shook his head, "No. No, I'm not. Did you hear the way those men were talking about Obil? About how they killed him?”

"Aye." Cadmin sighed. "'Tis the way of life. We destroy things that might profit us, regardless of how innocent or precious it might be. I'm sorry, my friend. I wish it weren’t so.”

"At least you _understand it_ ," Ruselm hated the tears that threatened to spill over onto his olive cheeks. He turned his face away from Cadmin, hoping to hide his emotions. He knew it was stupid to be crying over a dead echinops but Ruselm's heart was stinging in his chest so horribly, the tears might help relieve him of his pain. His voice was tight. "But how many beasts have to die for those greedy bastards? Where is the line crossed? When they're so few in numbers that they're almost impossible to find? When they're extinct?"

Cadmin (thankfully) didn't comment on Ruselm's tears that had begun to splash onto his cheeks and the ground below their feet. He leaned closer and spoke in the young man's ear. "Be calmed, Ruselm, for when decent people like you exist, the cruelty of others will always be offset. Ya make this land better, I can feel it."

"If only you were right, Cadmin."

"I am," he insisted. "Ye’ve reminded me that there are brave little things in this world; there are things to hold out for, to protect, to cherish. I'll be damned if ya don't include yerself in that list. Ye’ve already shown me that there’s nothing more powerful than yer compassion.” 

Ruselm looked up to Cadmin, feeling immoderately like a small child staring up at his father. The words had a strangely calming effect on him and made his heart swell with a sense of... pride? Happiness? Relief? He couldn't properly place the emotion and label it but perhaps the general feeling was a mixture of all three at once. And slowly, his tears dried, although his heart ached like he'd been punched directly in his chest, above his sternum. 

He smiled at Cadmin, the receiver returning the action. "Thank you."

"No need," Cadmin brushed the comment off. He straightened again and glanced about them, his eyes lingering on a hooded figure down the road from them. Cadmin’s eyes quickly flickered back to Ruselm’s. The Kovirian smiled warmly and clapped a hand onto Ruselm’s back. “I must be going, Nazairian. Remember, next time I see ya, yer paying for the ale.”

Ruselm’s features dimmed. He tilted his head. “You’re going?”

“I’m afraid I must.”

“You can’t leave! I’ve only just begun to like you!” Ruselm protested, with all seriousness apparent in his behavior. His eyebrows pinched together and the edges of his lips curled downward, proof of unhappiness and even disappointment. “I thought we might stay together for awhile. Was I wrong?”

Cadmin chuckled and shook his head. “You know I do enjoy the idea of sticking by yer side a while longer, but I do have business to take care of here in Sodden.”

Ruselm crossed his arms over his chest. He scowled slightly. “You never told me what that business was.” This was a statement, not a query. “But…”—Ruselm was softening now—”That’s alright. I’m certain we’ll meet again.”

He didn’t want to leave Cadmin, but there was nothing left in Sodden. Not after the deaths of both Obil and the she-warg. Ruselm had come for them and now that both beasts were gone, Sodden didn’t seem so lively anymore. There wasn’t the potential of danger (not the kind he liked, anyhow) around each corner. There wasn’t a new chapter in his bestiary. There wasn’t a reason to stay. 

“Aye, if Destiny permits it,” Cadmin was saying. “Then I’ll be all too happy to meet ya again, no matter where it happens to be. Farewell, Ruselm. I bid you luck in your travels.”

Ruselm uncrossed his arms, throwing them around Cadmin’s burly form instead. They embraced, though the Nazairian had to stand on his toes to reach around Cadmin, which the latter found amusing. “Thank you, Cadmin Vyrrentz. I’m paying next time. Good luck with your… mysterious business!”

And just like that, the Kovirian parted ways with Ruselm who stood with a little sigh just outside of the Pig’s Arse, wondering if he should head south like the witcher before him. Cadmin disappeared in the direction of the cloaked figure, lost to sight. 

Sodden held no more mystery, heading north would be far too cold… yes, Ruselm liked the sound of going south. He could head to the coast! Blaviken, Balès, Allernia, Thetdow, Bayset—the possibilities were endless! The beasts he could encounter, the stories he could hear, the people he could talk to! Perhaps the south was the only way left to go. 

Ruselm couldn’t explain the feeling, but there was a pull in his chest. 

It was like Destiny.


	6. The Bear Who Growls

**THE COUNTRY VILLAGE** that was deemed Thetdow was homely and small, comprised of a tangle of bleakly thatched houses built too close together. A curious neighbor who had to inquire about something needed only to open their window and ask across to the next house over. The closeness inherently insured that all villagers knew each other and kept a close eye on the happenings around their home. 

The manor where Ruselm was born and raised in Nazair had been somewhat secluded. The Jurren family manor was extravagant and built to a much larger scale than necessary, dwarfing any who stood next to it as Florys had intended when he designed the home. Its main building housed six separate bedchambers, only two of which were actually used by Ruselm and his father, Thaddäus, after the death of his mother. A big home for proud people; people that bore their name with honor and labored endlessly for their multifarious plethora of hopes and dreams, all within the comforts of their own homestead tucked away from the rest of Assengard and the people that lingered near it. 

There were two outbuildings on the lands Ruselm’s father owned which served as houses for Maurits and Sibren, his dear friend’s father. These ‘houses’ were little more than glorified huts but no matter how much Ruselm insisted on Maurits staying in the manor, Maurits had always rejected the idea and spouted a reason like, “It’s about respect.” Or, “Family honor.”

Ruselm hadn’t cared about Jurren family honor, he’d only wanted Maurits to live in relative comfort, with a _real_ bed and not the straw mat he constricted himself to every evening. 

After all, both Maurits and Sibren worked for Thaddäus as loyal servants. They managed the grounds and gardens, cleaned and repaired the manor, cooked, washed the clothes, polished the armor, fed the animals—they did every task in need of doing to spare the Jurrens from any ‘unnecessary’ labor, as Thaddäus had always put it. In return for their faithful service, they were allowed to live on the land and cultivate their own crop and livestock for extra money. To Ruselm, the deal seemed more one-sided but Sibren never complained. 

Growing up, he could never tell if it was because Sibren felt indebted to his father or because he truly had nowhere else to go. 

The companionship of Sibren’s only son was invaluable, though, after he’d lost his mother and Ruselm never found himself ungrateful or unhappy that Sibren stayed with Maurits. Ruselm and his playmate had been born just a week apart (with Maurits being the older) and they’d been attached at the hip for as long as the young author could remember. 

He could remember asking Maurits, at the age of six, what he wanted to do with his life. 

“My only goal is to serve you,” had been the short answer. It had made Ruselm sad at the time, for reasons he couldn’t quite comprehend. Fourteen years later and he still felt a pang in his chest at the thought of it. He couldn’t understand what it was like to live with only the simplest thing such as loyalty to one family. 

And when Ruselm had abandoned the Jurren manor for the uncertainty proffered to him by the world beyond Nazair? Maurits was furious. 

“You can’t just make someone care about you!” Maurits had shouted as Ruselm turned to the road. His voice had been thick with emotion, he had been lashing out in a rare display of anger and desperation. “You can’t just do that and then get to leave! What about the manor? What about your father? Your family name? You have to stay here and fulfill your destiny. There’s nothing out there for you, Russ!”

“What kind of destiny is waiting for me here?” Ruselm remembered turning, remembered shouting with the smallest tinge of venom in his voice. It was the venom he regretted the most, and how it made Maurits’s face fall as though his entire world was being taken away from him. “I can’t very well accomplish things from this fucking seclusion, can I? My father doesn’t understand, Sibren doesn’t understand, and you don’t understand. The last Jurren who ever made a name for himself was Stefan—and that was only _after_ he’d finished the manor! It’s a prison here. A prison for creativity and independence; if I stay then I might as well lay around doing nothing just like my father, and wonder where I went wrong!”

“You’re looking for an executioner! That’s all this is. I know Halla’s death tore you apart but you’ve never been the same, I’m scared you’ll—”

This was the moment in Ruselm’s memory where he snapped. He recalled it as a red haze drifting over his vision, he’d been so angry then. So angry. “Don’t you dare bring my mother into this, Maurits. You’re scared I’ll die? I’ll compose a pragmatic story for you: death comes to all of us sooner or later, it’s only a matter of the when and the where. It is an inevitable fate and if I can live the life that I want before I meet her, then I’m going to. I can’t stay chained to this manor forever, can I? There would be no point.”

“You’re not chained, you’re—!”

“Imprisoned. Trapped. Helpless. No matter the word you use, it still translates into the same tale, Maurits. I know where your heart is, but I need you to stop… please, in the name of our bond, can’t you just stop?”

He’d never seen Maurits so despondent. “So this is it then? You’re leaving, and you’re not coming back?”

“I’m leaving,” Ruselm had echoed. “And I’m never coming back.”

“Right. Okay.”

“You should leave, too. Branch out, start somewhere new. You have potential, Maurits. You have potential to be successful, you’re far more than a servant. If I were to ever come back, it would sadden me to see you wasting away your life slaving for a family that died long ago.”

The parting of the two men who’d grown together as brothers did had been the most melancholy day of Ruselm’s life. He’d turned and never looked back, heart high in his throat at the thought of the adventures beyond Nazair that awaited him. 

And perhaps he did have a death wish after his mother had been so violently torn from his life (the memory of which still plagued him ever since its remembrance when he was with Cadmin) but when the she-warg was almost certainly going to get him, he’d felt real, genuine fear. Fear was an interesting matter when it came to Ruselm, who almost always tried to face it with a facetious manner, but in the face of the warg… everything had been different. 

It hadn’t been Ruselm’s time to die. 

_That was why_ , he’d told himself. _Death isn’t ready for you yet._

Until the bestiary was complete, Death wouldn’t be able to touch him. Ruselm could feel this very truth in his bones. After the fact, however, he knew everything would change. Perhaps that is when fate would call to him and lead him down a road untraveled. 

Walking through the worn path cutting through the middle of Thetdow, Ruselm kept his wits about him as he approached a small cluster of villagers. They stood in a semicircle around a lean man who raised his voice to carry out to every person gathered, even to reach those who remained in their homes with the windows open. Some leaned out, hungry faces consuming his every word. 

Ruselm stood at the back of the crowd, keeping quiet to avoid attention. 

“The bear’s a nasty bastard, real evil-looking!” There was an old scar marring the man’s otherwise handsome face. His wavy blond hair fell across his forehead, leading the eyes naturally to his bright green eyes. “He’s in the cave just west of here. A brown mass of bloody fur with the blackest eyes you can imagine! We need to form a group of men, only those willing, to hunt this beast. If we combine our strength, he’ll be dead before nightfall!”

A chill ran through Ruselm at the thought of this man’s proposition. They couldn’t just kill a bear for being near them! He opened his mouth to speak but several others cut him off, crying their support for the cause. 

“Yes!” A woman’s voice. “That bear’ll get too comfortable if we leave him be. He needs to die!”

“You can count on my sword!” The deep voice of an elder man carried through the village. He was echoed by several others crying the same assurances. It wasn’t long until the clamor became overwhelming, pushing Ruselm to take a step back from the crowd.

He didn’t like the direction this was going. Angry crowds led to bad things. 

“What has the bear done?” Ruselm found his voice to be steady when he spoke above the cries, not at all as weak as he’d heard it in his own mind. The question silenced those gathered, putting a swift end to the anxious manner of the multitude. Glares were thrown his way and very suddenly a countless number of eyes were trained on the Nazairian standing at the back of the throng. Voices sent muffled whispers alight through the town but Ruselm’s eyes were focused on the man that had begun this frenzy. 

“What?” The blond questioned him, raising his voice only just enough to be heard across the way. 

“What crime has the bear committed?” Ruselm repeated patiently, rephrasing his question the second time around. He thought it sounded better this way, much clearer to point out what the problem he saw with this gathering to be. “Why are you assembling to plot his murder?”

The man scoffed. “He’s just a walk away from Thetdow! We can’t let him come any closer.”

“Who says he’s going to come closer?”

This hadn’t been thought of. The crowd murmured louder now, uneasiness rippling through them. He could tell they were still on the offensive but weren’t impossible to be reached. Maybe he did have a chance of turning this around?

“It’s what bears do,” the man retorted after a few moments of contemplation. “How else did this bear come to be so near to our town? He’s come to the wrong place if he thinks he can settle so near to our children.”

Ruselm frowned, his heart soaring in his throat. “Has he harmed any of your children? What crime is he responsible for? You can’t just persecute this bear because it displeases you that he has migrated away from his previous home.”

“Of course we can!” The man’s shout was vicious now, he was becoming impatient. As was the herd of simpleminded people; their voices returned to encouraging shouts, anxious prattling, hands clenched into eager fists which ached to wreak havoc. “This bear will bring _nothing_ but death! He will bring _nothing_ but sorrow! He will bring _nothing_ but pain! Mourning! Fear! Evil!”

“No,” Ruselm’s protests fell on deaf ears. “No! You’re fear-mongering! You’re causing panic among the people, not the bear!”

Nobody was listening to Ruselm any longer, their minds were thrown into the idea that a bear, victim only to migration, was the offender here. His heart was pounding now, blood pressure rising at the thought of the violence that would be unleashed. 

As the villagers continued to make their plans, Ruselm stepped away from the mob to catch his breath. What could he do now? The bear would be set upon by fearful avengers for perceived wrongs he hadn’t yet committed. He would be slaughtered. No matter how strong, he would fall. Another denizen of nature slain. Another victim to the agenda of an oppressing race. It would break Ruselm’s heart to watch this happen. 

_You don’t have to watch_ , his mind spoke now. _You can do something. You can protect the beast before they manage to get to him._

Without another word on the matter, Ruselm picked up his pace and lightly jogged to the west of Thetdow where the man had indicated the bear was located. In a cave, he remembered. It would be evident of the bear’s presence in the forest long before the Nazairian reached the cave because, as Ruselm was jogging he was recalling everything he knew about such intelligent creatures like bears, they were territorial. Trees would lay bare scores of claw marks, ruts so deep in the trunks Ruselm would be able to run his finger along the bottom edge of them. The mud would reveal the bear’s recent spoors and lead him along the right path. It was just a matter of time. 

Overhead, the sky had darkened considerably since he’d arrived at Thetdow. 

It was the rainy season, Ruselm was unsurprised that the grey sky spoke a warning of thunder and showers. The clouds were teeming with unshed rain, heavy in the sky the same way a woman is heavy with her unborn child. Ruselm watched with apprehension as the sun began to sink below the horizon. Once its light was gone, the night would reign and the heathens of Thetdow would embark on their quest to kill the bear. 

He had to hurry. 

Some of the rather thick trunks of trees around Ruselm had been stripped bare of their bark, husks laying on the ground beside his feet. The cave had to be around here somewhere, didn’t it? Ruselm had gone off in the right direction. 

Soft rain began to patter on the trees around Ruselm, sticking his black hair to his shoulders and slightly obscuring his vision as the trees grew thicker here and the light in the sky became so dark that he began to wish lightning would strike, if only to light his way.

He tripped over a rock but kept going. 

Low-hanging branches caught in his hair. 

Brambles tried to entangle his feet.

Ruselm slid to a stop the second he reached an opening in the trees, the mouth of a cave opening its jaws wide open to receive him should he dare enter. Eyes darting back and forth across the clearing, there was no sight of the bear anywhere. Ruselm turned, the hooting and howling of the approaching villagers coming could be heard from this distance. 

“Where are you?” Ruselm shouted into the trees. The crackle of thunder overhead was his only answer. “PLEASE!”

A low growl came from the trees. The author turned, shivering at the cold as the precipitation continued to plaster his clothes against his olive skin, and made eye contact with one of the largest animals he had ever seen in his entire life. The bear was brown, shoulders severely hunched forward as the beast stalked closer towards Ruselm, his head hanging low to the ground. Black eyes looked up at him and, despite the bear remaining on all four paws, Ruselm felt the need to cower and hide. Nothing could top the intimidation of a bear. 

There was a long pause between the two as a mutual understanding flitted through the air from one to the other. 

It stopped in front of Ruselm, rising to stand on its hind legs to tower over him. The bear seemed to glare at the human in his presence, almost accusingly as though he knew why Ruselm was there. An ugly, jagged scar curled over the bear’s snout; a chunk of his left nostril missing, a nick in his right ear the shape of a wolf’s claw, the evidence of a heavy limp foretelling a weak spot in the bear’s right front leg. He’d seen many years and many battles, Ruselm suspected. He was unflinching but extremely intelligent. 

“There’s people coming,” Ruselm found himself talking in a soothing voice, tone calm but low. The bear’s small ears seemed to perk forward at the sound of his voice. He had a sneaking suspicion the bear could understand him even over the rain and the steadily approaching wails of the villagers. “They want to kill you. You need to leave!”

The bear was silent. 

What did Ruselm expect? A conversation? 

“Get out of here!” Ruselm raised his voice, stomping one foot as though he were going to charge forward. He stopped short and threw his hands up in the air. “Piss off! You don’t fancy death, do you? Get away from here and never return!”

The bear guffawed and opened his maw to reveal long, stained teeth that could easily tear shreds into Ruselm. 

Voices could be made out in the distance now as the rain came down harder. Specks of light from lit torches were the only determination to the pair in the progress the townspeople were making through the wood. It would be a minute, maybe two, before they would reach the cave and the bear still wasn’t budging. 

Tears pricked the back of Ruselm’s eyes, threatening to spill over and reveal his liquid infirmity; weakness of the heart that was kept as a terrible secret. He could imagine what kind of death they had in store for the bear and thinking about its pain and suffering—Ruselm started to cry with desperation. He waved with anguish now, attempting to scare the brown bear away while the tears mixed with rain. 

“Circle around, circle around!” The voice belonging to the blond man from before could be heard through the trees. His commands came as clear barks taut with authority. 

“Leave, _please_ ,” Ruselm begged, a forlorn attempt. 

The bear blinked and chomped his open mouth a few times, becoming tense with the nervous energy charging the air. It swung its mighty head back and forth as it scanned the trees for signs of the villagers. His waterlogged fur made his figure more slim, though it was clear he was built with nothing but muscle. 

“Advance, now!”

_Listen to me…_

“Get out of here!”

_Come on…_

“There he is! There he is, aim slowly and hold!”

Unleashing a roar to bend the trees themselves, the bear raised a massive paw the size of Ruselm’s face and pushed the author down onto the ground as a volley of arrows were let unloose on their location. They whistled through the air from all directions, three striking the bear just between his shoulder blades and another lodging itself in his chest. The rest bounced off of his thick hide but if his bellow was any significant reaction to the attacks, he was in suffering great pain. 

The feather-tipped arrows stuck out of the bear to decorate him as a porcupine. 

“Again, fire!”

The bear had turned where the arrows had taken him from behind as more hailed from the treeline, hissing as they sliced the air and cut into his muscle. 

“Stop!” Ruselm was screaming. He remained low to the ground to avoid being caught in the crossfire, clutching helplessly at the wet ground beneath his hands. The mud caked his fingernails but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the bear which had just saved his life. He’d have been perforated by the arrow which struck his chest if the beast hadn’t pushed him down! “Stop firing, for fuck’s sake!” 

Either the villagers didn’t hear him over the bear’s anger or they didn’t care. 

It was an arrow to the eye that brought the old bear down, his limp body hitting the forest floor with a _thump!_ rivalling the thunder itself. Cheers from the villagers rose above the rain, cries from Ruselm were heard under their tones as he rushed to the side of the bear. 

He was breathing heavily. It was too late, the bear was dead. The arrow had torn into his brain and the one sticking from his chest had only been pushed deeper into his muscle and heart as the bear had fallen forward. 

Ruselm bowed his head, leaning over the bear’s neck while he slung an arm over the beast as though he were going to hug it. A rustic naturesque scent of old wood and fragrant wildflowers wafted into his nostrils and soothed his anger in a way that his mind couldn’t, or _wouldn’t_. 

_How…? How do men celebrate the death of such a majestic creature? One who did nothing wrong, at that. One who simply appeared in the wrong place at the worst time. I just don’t understand._

A rough hand smacked his back and startled Ruselm into glancing behind him. He glared up into the green eyes of the blond man from before who had single-handedly led the charge of the beast’s demise. 

“Get up.” The blond man commanded. 

Ruselm stared daggers. “No.”

“It’s dead.”

“You nearly killed me, do you realize that?”

“Then perhaps you shouldn’t have been out here in the first place,” the man scoffed and brushed his question off. “Now fuck off, will you? We’re taking the bastard back to Thetdow.”

Ruselm pushed the man’s hand off of him, anger lacing his features. He was trying to contain himself but everything was spilling out of him faster than he could hope to contain it. How cruel and useless could people be? Ruselm’s heart hardened almost imperceptibly, a soft whisper of reminder that this wound would not be soon forgotten. 

_Obil_ , his heart whispered. _The Old Bear. Remember._

“You’re not taking him anywhere!” Ruselm snapped. “Get the fuck out of here before I strangle you with my bare hands! You’ve just killed an animal who did nothing to harm you. He saved me from your incompetence and you relish in his demise because there’s nothing better for you to do with your sad, lonely, small life of which you’ve made nothing but a fool of yourself! You’ve amounted to what—nothing? Unsurprising considering you felt the need to be heard by your compatriots _so badly_ that you would lead them to hunt a bear whose only crime was being noticed by a good-for-nothing, reprobate son of a whore like you!”

He turned away, affronted and inconsolable. 

The man appeared flabbergasted and unable to speak, mouth opening and closing like a fish condemned to land. He turned abruptly and left Ruselm to the bear’s carcass. 

There were soft questions from the other townspeople but Ruselm didn’t care to hear the answers the man gave them. His heart was raging as he stared down at the bear’s dead body, his hands tightened into fists as they curled around the beast’s thick brown fur still matted with the slickness of rain. 

Ruselm couldn’t remember a single time he had ever spoken to another man like that, and his own words scared him deeply. What was he becoming?

“Nathan,” another man’s voice caught Ruselm’s attention. Its quality pulled him from his reflections. The words were directed at the blond man who had left him just moments before. “You won’t believe it—there’s been word from Balès about their troll problem. They passed along word that a witcher has relieved them and is headed on to Blaviken.”

_Witcher?_

Ruselm wondered briefly if it could be the very man he believed, and hoped, it was. The man whose path he had followed after leaving Sodden. 

“What witcher?” The blond man’s, Nathan’s, voice was curious. 

“Geralt of Rivia, they say. We could send word out about our problem at the cemetery, see if they could convince the witcher to come and help us. Do I have permission to convey the message?”

Nathan paused. Ruselm could feel the man’s eyes on him for the briefest of moments, rain filling the silence. “Do it.”

The man left with the other villagers, only Nathan and Ruselm remaining behind with the body of the bear. Their silent company was thick with tension, Ruselm watching the bear as if he would come back to life at any moment and take his rightful revenge. Nathan watching Ruselm as if he were actually going to follow through with his threat of strangling the man. 

“Geralt won’t be coming,” Ruselm broke the silence. 

“What?” 

Ruselm glanced over his shoulder at Nathan. “Geralt of Rivia won’t be coming to help you. You’ve condemned yourselves and your shitty town to whatever monster awaits you in your cemetery.”

Nathan crossed his arms over his chest. He was standing just under the bough of a tree, mostly sheltered from the downpour that rivalled Ruselm’s own intensity. “That isn’t true!” He protested. “He’s a witcher. Witchers go where the coin flows. We’ll pay him well if he can get rid of that hellhound that’s been plaguing us.”

“He’s not going to be dealing with your problem,” Ruselm laughed bitterly, head thrown back as he sidled closer to the bear’s body. “After I tell him what you’ve done here. You can be damned sure Geralt will know my opinion on the matter, and my recommendation for your punishment.”

“Well, that’s not really for you to decide, is it?”

“Was it for you to decide if this bear lived or died?”

Nathan remained silent, green eyes burning holes into Ruselm’s head. 

“Besides,” the Nazairian went on with no small measure of contempt. “A hellhound, you say? That’s a beast of your own creation, dear sir. He is conjured where humans are wicked and evil. I’ve read about hellhounds before, you see, and they are creatures of the underworld, specters that assume the form of a terrifying hound as they tirelessly stalk victims like you because once it finds you, you’re at the mercy of a merciless being. Authors from all around believe that hellhounds embody the vengeance of our gods, who send their loyal servants to punish humans for their wickedness. Poor you, you’ve made the top of the list, haven’t you?”

There was real fear in Nathan’s green eyes now, one that hadn’t existed before. “You can’t sentence an entire village to the hell you’ve just described! It’s not right!”

Ruselm huffed and mimicked Nathan’s earlier words. “Then perhaps you shouldn’t have killed the bear even when I screamed for your violence to stop.”

“You’re a bastard,” Nathan growled, eyes flaring with hatred. He uncrossed his arms and set his hands to his hips instead. “I want you out of Thetdow. You’re never welcome into our village again, do you hear me, Nazairian?”

“Loud and clear,” Ruselm sneered. “Stay away from your shithole? No quarrel from me.”


	7. Irion's Ivory Tower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much of this chapter is from Sapkowski himself, from _The Last Wish_ , which I have edited and added my own touches to. Many Witcher fans haven't read the novels so if you like the writing in this chapter, I urge you to go give them a read! The best part about this is that you can't always tell which descriptions are mine and which are Sapkowski's.

**GERALT COULD EXPECT** nothing less when cats and children noticed him first. A striped tomcat sleeping on a sun-warmed stack of wood shuddered, raised his angular head, flattened back his ears, hissed and bolted off into the nettles behind one of the houses. Three-year old Dragomir, fisherman Trigla's son, who was sitting on the hut's threshold doing his best to make dirtier an already dirty shirt, started to shout warnings as he fixed his baleful eyes on the passing rider. It was always like this when he arrived in a new town, he was unsurprised that Blaviken was no different. 

The mousy grey donkey was laden with the heaviness of the kikimora he’d slain on the dyke not four miles from Blaviken. It trotted behind Roach, pulling at the lead wrapped around the witcher’s pommel as it tried to keep up with the mare’s fast pace. Geralt himself was in no hurry, but Roach was feeling rather energetic since she wasn’t the one forced to carry the body of the monster from the swamp.  


Outside of the alderman’s house, where Geralt meant to take the kikimora, were several gathered people and their carts. A small crowd had begun following behind the witcher at some point during his path through Blaviken, and they formed a semicircle around Roach and the long-eared donkey as he hopped off, readjusted the swords on his back, and grabbed hold of Roach’s reins to tie them on a post outside of the home. The rather adventurous villagers tried to poke at the large saddlecloth that was wrapped around the dead monster on the donkey’s back but one bay from the ass had them retracting their hands just as quickly. 

Caldemeyn had just finished dealing with a small, podgy and red with rage villager that stood holding a struggling goose by the neck in front of his house, sending the boy off with a scowl. 

“What—By all the gods! Is that you, Geralt?” Caldemeyn, with eyes wide, couldn’t help the little smile that wormed its way onto his face. “Do my eyes deceive me?”

“Nay,” Geralt slightly bowed his head. “Greetings, Caldemeyn.”

“Greetings, Geralt!” The alderman squeezed the witcher's hand as he approached, slapped him on the shoulder in a friendly manner. “You haven't been here for a good two years, witcher. You can never stay in one place for long, can you? Where are you coming from?” The alderman didn’t even wait for an answer as he continued his monologue. “Ah, dog's arse, what's the difference where?”

Geralt found himself dragged inside as Caldemeyn shouted over his shoulder at the villagers gathered outside of his home.

“Hey, somebody bring us some beer! Sit down, Geralt, sit down. It's mayhem here because we've the market tomorrow. Everyone’s getting all excited and anxious. How are things with you, tell me!”

“Later.” The witcher politely shook his head. “Come outside first.”

The crowd standing outside had grown at least twofold but the empty space around his donkey hadn't grown any smaller. Geralt threw the horse blanket aside, knowing very well the type of reaction he’d get from those gathered. The crowd gasped and shrinked backwards, talking behind their hands, their fear and curiosity teeming in the air.

Caldemeyn's mouth fell open, surprise lining his wrinkled features. “By all the gods, Geralt! What is that dastardly thing?”

“A kikimora. Is there any reward for it?”

Caldemeyn shifted his weight from foot to foot, looking at the spidery shape of the monster with its dry black skin, that ugly glassy eye with its vertical pupil, the needle-like fangs in the bloody jaws… it was enough to make any grown man shiver and shake. “Where—From where—?”

“On the dyke, not some four miles from town. It was hiding in the swamps. Caldemeyn, people _must_ have disappeared there. Children, probably.” Geralt crossed his arms. “You can’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

“Well, yes, true enough. But nobody—Who could have guessed—Hey, folks, go home, get back to work!” Caldemeyn waved his arms to get the people to shove off, turning back around to head inside of his house. “This isn't a show! Cover it back up, Geralt. Flies are gathering.” 

Back inside, the alderman grabbed a large jug of beer without a word and drank it to the last drop in one loud draught. He sighed deeply and sniffled, satisfied after the drink. “There's no reward,” he announced gloomily. “No one suspected that there was something like that lurking in the salt marshes. It's true that several people have disappeared in those parts, but… Hardly anyone loitered on that dyke. There’s just been no reason to. And why were you there? Why weren't you taking the main road?”

“It's hard for me to make a living on main roads, Caldemeyn.” Geralt took a seat near one of the windows, keeping one eye on Roach and the donkey. “Monsters hide off the path.”

“I forgot.” The alderman suppressed a hefty belch, puffing out his cheeks so he looked like a squirrel. “And this used to be such a peaceful area! Even imps only rarely pissed in the women's milk. And here, right next to us, some sort of felispectre. It's only fitting that I thank you because, as for paying you, I can't.” Caldemeyn’s words dropped like heavy stones. “I haven't the funds. Blaviken’s struggling enough as it is without being able to pay others.”

Wordlessly, the alderman offered beer to the tired and quiet witcher. He took it with a small dip of his head. 

_So much for being paid._

“That's a shame.” Geralt sighed. “I could do with a small sum to get through the winter.” The witcher took a sip from his jug, wiped away the cool froth from his mouth. He observed the alderman’s home with a roving amber eye, unsurprised to see everything just the same as it used to be. “I was thinking of making my way to Yspaden, but I don't know if I’d get there before the snows block the way. I might get stuck in one of the shitty little towns on the Lutonski road.”

“Do you plan to stay long in Blaviken?” Caldemeyn’s curiosity was polite. 

“No. I’ve no time to waste.” Geralt set the beer down on a table beside him and resigned his hands to resting on the tops of his thighs. “Winter's coming.”

Caldemeyn accepted the answer quickly. “Where are you going to stay, then? With me, perhaps? There's an empty room in the attic you could use. Why get fleeced by the innkeepers, those thieves! We'll have a chat and you can tell me what's happening in the big, wide world.”

Geralt only considered the offer for a few moments. His options were limited to the marshy woods, a swindling innkeeper, or, now, Caldemeyn’s attic. The answer was easy. “I’ll stay. It’ll be much more welcome than the marsh, and easier on the coin. But what will Libushe have to say about it? It was quite obvious the last time I was about that she's not very keen on me.”

“Women don't have a say in my house.” Caldemeyn waved him off. “Libushe will be fine. But, just between us, don't do what you did during supper last time in front of her again.”

“You mean when I threw my fork at that rat?”

“No. I mean when you hit it, even in the dark.”

“I thought it would be amusing.” Geralt’s lips curled into a self-satisfied smile. 

“It was!” Caldemeyn couldn’t suppress the shit-eating grin he only released when Geralt was around. They’d had good times together, years of something akin to friendship. But the witcher wasn’t one to have friends, his job wouldn’t allow for it, though Caldemeyn had seemed to be one of the exceptions. “But don't do it in front of Libushe, she’ll have a fit. And listen, this… what's it called…? This kiki—”

“Kikimora.”

“Do you need it for anything?” Caldemeyn’s question was serious. 

What would Geralt need with a kikimora? 

“What would I want it for? You can have your people throw it in the cesspool if there's no reward for it.” Geralt shrugged casually and stood from his seat, ready to head outside and relieve the donkey of his load. 

The alderman considered the idea briefly before another struck him. His dark eyes lit up at the idea, and his words came quickly as though he couldn’t talk fast enough. “Listen, Geralt, maybe our local wizard will spare you something for that carcass. The fishermen bring him the oddest of fish—octopedes, clabaters or herrongs—many have made some good money on them. Perhaps you can convince him to pay for your monster too.”

The last time the witcher had been to Blaviken, there was no wizard. He found it strange that they’d have gotten one in the short time of his absence. “You've got yourselves a wizard?” Geralt questioned lightly. “Is he here for good or only passing?”

“For good. He is known as Master Irion.” As if sensing Geralt’s curiosity, Caldemeyn continued on. “He's been living in Blaviken for a year now. A powerful magus, Geralt, you'll see that from his very appearance. Been a solitary sort of fellow, never leaving his tower much, but he has pulled through in times of Blaviken’s need.”

“I doubt whether a powerful magus, as you put it, will pay for a kikimora,” Geralt grimaced. “As far as I know, it's not needed for any elixirs. Your Irion will only insult me, no doubt. We witchers and wizards don't have love for each other.”

“I’ve never heard of Master Irion insulting anyone.” Caldemeyn shrugged and mirrored Geralt’s earlier movements, standing up now. “I can't swear that he'll pay you but there's no harm in trying. There might be more kikimores like that on the marshes and what then? Let the wizard look at the monster and cast some sort of spell on the marshlands or something, just in case. It’s not like I know how magic works.”

The witcher thought for a moment.

“Very well, Caldemeyn. Where’s this Irion of yours staying?”

As it turned out to be, a tower. A tower! Geralt wanted to laugh at the irony of the wizard’s choice in home, but he kept his amusement to himself. Caldemeyn had taken the lead, presenting the old tower which had stood the test of time even before Geralt’s last visit. The tower looked different now, though. Stronger, brighter. The tower, built from smoothly hewn blocks of smooth granite and crowned by tooth-like battlements, was far more impressive than it previously had been, dominating the broken tiles of homesteads and dipping-roofed thatched cottages of the town which lay in wait behind the pair. 

Geralt figured this Irion had renovated with the use of magic, as most wizards did. 

“What's he like,” Geralt questioned. “This Irion?”

“Decent. He helps people. But he's a recluse, doesn't say much. As I mentioned before, he rarely leaves the tower anymore.”

On the grand door, which was adorned with a rosace inlaid with pale wood, hung an unnecessarily large knocker in the shape of a flat, bulging-eyed fish-head holding a brass ring in its toothed jaws. Geralt had seen plenty of intricate knockers before but none were so lifelike and interesting to stare upon such as this fish. Why a fish, he wondered, when it could be anything else? The idea of it intrigued him but his attention was turned to the alderman that approached it without a second of hesitation. 

Caldemeyn, obviously well-versed with the workings of its mechanics, approached, cleared his throat and recited thus: “Alderman Caldemeyn greets you with a case for Master Irion. With him, greets you Witcher Geralt, with respect to the very same case. We humbly request entrance to your tower.”

For a long moment nothing happened; then, finally, the fish-head moved its toothed mandibles and belched a cloud of steam. “Master Irion is not receiving. Leave, my good people.”

Unworried, Caldemeyn turned and looked at Geralt with a telling glance. This was the expected reaction from the wizard. The witcher shrugged.

“Master Irion is not receiving,” the knocker repeated metallically once it noticed that they had not moved from the door. “Go, my good—”

“I’m not a good person,” Geralt swore loudly, his patience wearing thin. “I’m a witcher. That thing on the donkey behind me is a kikimora, and I killed it not far from town. It is the duty of every resident wizard to look after the safety of the neighborhood! Master Irion does not have to honor me with conversation, does not have to receive me, if that is his will. But let him examine the kikimora and draw his own conclusions about the matter.”

“Geralt,” the alderman murmured quietly. “You're going to leave later but I’m going to have to deal with—”

“Let's go, Caldemeyn.” Geralt interrupted and turned to the donkey they’d led to the tower. He didn’t have the time or need for fooling around outside of the wizard’s tower. He started to unstrap the kikimora’s corpse when the fish opened its maw again.

“One moment,” the knocker’s tone was entirely different now. “Geralt, is that really you?”

The witcher swore under his breath, rolled his eyes. “I’m quickly losing my patience. Yes, it's really me. So what?”

“Come up to the door,” said the knocker, puffing out another small cloud of steam. “Alone. And I’ll let you in.”

“What about the kikimora?”

“To hell with it. I want to talk to you, Geralt. Just you. Forgive me, Alderman.”

“What's it to me, Master Irion?” Caldemeyn waved the matter aside and began to walk back to Blaviken. “Take care, Geralt. We'll see each other later, I’m sure. I’ll get a man to dispose of the monster, just don’t be late for supper.”

The witcher approached the inlaid door, which opened a little bit—just enough for him to squeeze through—and then slammed shut, leaving him in complete darkness which flooded his vision. His catlike eyes were blinded but adjusted slowly to the lack of light.

“Hey!” Geralt shouted, not hiding his anger. 

“Just a moment,” answered a strangely familiar voice. Light came into the tower from an unseen source. Magic, he guessed.

The feeling of being overwhelmed was so unexpected that the witcher staggered and stretched out his hand, looking for support. He didn't find any. There was an orchard spanning before him, blossoming with white and pink, and the sweetness in the air smelled of rain. The sky above, which Geralt knew was not the true sky, was split by a many-colored arc of a rainbow which bound the crowns of the trees to the distant, blue chain of mountains. Yes, this certainly was an illusion. Without acknowledging the fact that witchers could see through such falsities, Geralt would still question it even if he were a small-minded fool. There was a house nestled far back in the orchard, tiny and modest, and drowning in beautiful multicolored hollyhocks.

Geralt suddenly looked down and discovered that he was up to his knees in wild thyme. This illusion, well-crafted and exquisite in the most literal sense possible, was a pleasant one. 

“Well, come on, Geralt,” said the same voice. “I’m in front of the house.”

He entered the orchard, walking through the blooming trees. The sweetness of their blossoms drifted into his nostrils, soothing him. Geralt knew they weren’t real; knew what he was seeing and smelling was fake, but it put him at a small measure of ease. This pretty illusion was what he wished the world could be like. Outside of this tower was a bleak, heartbreaking world that was not for the faint of heart. If only a place like this actually existed…

The witcher noticed a quick movement to his left and looked round, eyes catching sight of a fair-haired girl, entirely naked with her hair hanging behind her shoulders, who was walking along a row of small shrubs carrying a brown wicker basket full of the brightest, and probably juiciest, red apples Geralt had ever laid eyes on.

He solemnly promised himself that nothing would surprise him anymore.

“At last!” The voice drew Geralt’s eyes from the girl. “Greetings, witcher.”

“Stregobor!” Geralt was surprised now.

During his life, the witcher had met thieves who looked like town councilors, councilors who looked like beggars, harlots who looked like princesses, princesses who looked like calving cows and even kings who looked like thieves, but Stregobor always looked as, according to every rule and notion, a wizard was meant to look. 

He was tall, thin and stooping low due to the pain of age, with enormous bushy gray eyebrows and a long, crooked nose. Wrinkles interrupted his skin and revealed his years to the world. To top everything off, he wore a black, trailing robe with improbably wide sleeves, and wielded a long staff capped with a clear crystal knob. None of the wizards Geralt knew looked like Stregobor, and none of them acted as he did, either.

Most surprising to the witcher of all facts was that Stregobor was, indeed, a wizard. Somehow. Somewhere along the way, he’d managed to become powerful and revered. 

They sat in smooth wicker chairs beside a white marble-topped table on a porch surrounded by the hollyhocks. The naked blonde with the apple basket approached, smiled, turned and, swaying her hips, returned to the orchard. “Is that an illusion, too?” asked Geralt, unashamedly watching the sway with an appreciative eye. 

“It is.” Stregobor answered. “Like everything here. But it is, my dear friend, a first-class illusion. The flowers smell, you can eat the apples, the bee can sting you, and she”—the wizard indicated the blonde—“Well, you can—”

“Maybe later.” Geralt replied, disinterested. He crossed his arms loosely and turned his eyes back to Stregobor. 

“Quite right.” He nodded. “What are you doing here, Geralt? Are you still toiling away, killing the last representatives of dying species for money? How much did you get for the kikimora? Nothing, I’d guess, or you wouldn't have come here. And to think that there are people who don't believe in destiny. Unless you knew about me... Did you?”

“No, I didn't.” Said the witcher. “It's the last place I could have expected you. If my memory serves me correctly, you used to live in a quite similar tower in Kovir.” Yes, his memory was returning to him now. This tower, at least the outside, resembled the old place Stregobor had called his home. Briefly, Geralt wondered why the wizard had left. 

“A great deal has changed since then.”

“Such as your name. Apparently, you're Master Irion now.” 

“That's the name of the man who created this tower.” Stregobor explained. “He died about two hundred years ago, and I thought it right to honor him in some way since I have technically occupied his abode. I’m living here. Most of the inhabitants live off of the sea and, as you know, my speciality, apart from illusions, is weather. Sometimes I’ll calm a storm, sometimes conjure one up, sometimes drive schools of whiting and cod closer to the shores with the westerly wind. I can survive. That is,” he added, miserably, “I could.”

“How come ‘I could’? Why the change of name?” Geralt inquired suspiciously, eyes narrowed. 

“Destiny has many faces, my friend. Mine is beautiful on the outside and hideous on the inside. She has stretched her bloody talons toward me—”

“You've not changed a bit, Stregobor.” Geralt grimaced and lowered his chin. “You're talking nonsense while making wise and meaningful faces. Can't you speak normally for once?”

“I can,” sighed the wizard. “I can if that makes you happy. I made it all the way here, hiding and running from a monstrous being that wants to murder me. My escape proved in vain—it found me. In all probability, it's going to try to kill me tomorrow, or at the latest, the day after.”

“Aha,” said the witcher dispassionately. “Now I understand.”

“My facing death doesn't impress you much, does it?”

“Stregobor,” said Geralt, “that's the way of the world. One sees all sorts of things when they travel. Two peasants kill each other over a field which, the following day, will be trampled flat by two counts and their retinues trying to kill each other off. Men hang from trees at the roadside; brigands slash merchants’ throats. At every step in town you trip over corpses in the gutters. In palaces, they stab each other with daggers, and somebody falls under the table at a banquet every minute, blue from poisoning. I’m used to it. So why should a death threat impress me, and one directed at you at that?”

“One directed at me at that,” Stregobor repeated with a sneer, lip curling. “And I considered you a friend! Counted on your help.”

“Our last meeting,” said Geralt, “was in the court of King Idi of Kovir. I’d come to be paid for killing the amphisboena which had been terrorizing the neighborhood. You and your compatriot Zavist vied with each other to call me a _charlatan_ , a thoughtless murdering machine and a mere scavenger. Consequently, not only did Idi refuse to pay me a single penny, he gave me twelve hours to leave Kovir and, since his hourglass was broken, I barely made it out of there in time. And now you say you're counting on my help. You say a monster's after you. Ironic, isn’t it?” The witcher found their situation to be more amusing than he’d originally guessed it to be. A wizard needing a witcher’s help for once? 

_This is rich._

“Just what are you afraid of, Stregobor?” He asks. “If it catches up with you, tell it you like monsters! That you protect them and make sure no witcher-scavenger ever troubles their peace. Indeed, if the monster disembowels and devours you, it'll prove terribly ungrateful to you.”

The wizard turned his head away silently and Geralt laughed. “Don't get all puffed up like a frog, magician. Tell me what's threatening you. We'll see what can be done.” Despite his dislike of Stregobor, Geralt knew it was his duty to protect people from monsters, even people as unsavory as the wizard before him. 

Stregobor’s voice was quiet. “Have you heard of the Curse of the Black Sun?”

“But of course. Except that it was called the ‘Mania of Mad Eltibald’ after the wizard who started the fucking lark and,” Geralt shrugged, “caused dozens of girls from good, even noble, families to be murdered or imprisoned in towers. They were supposed to have been possessed by demons; cursed, contaminated by the Black Sun, because that's what, in your _pompous jargon_ , you called the most ordinary eclipse in the entire world.”

“Eltibald wasn't mad at all.” Stregobor was desperate to prove he was correct. “He deciphered the writing on Dauk menhirs, on tombstones in the Wozgor necropolises, and examined the legends and traditions of weretots. All of them spoke of the eclipse in no uncertain terms. The Black Sun was to announce the imminent return of Lilit, still honored in the East under the name of Niya, and _the extermination of the human race_. Lilit's path was to be prepared by ‘sixty women wearing gold crowns, who would fill the river valleys with blood.’”

“Nonsense,” said the witcher with a scoff. “And what's more, it doesn't rhyme. All decent predictions rhyme. Everyone knows what Eltibald and the Council of Wizards had in mind at the time.” He pointed out. “ _You_ took advantage of a madman's ravings to strengthen your own authority. To break up alliances, ruin marriage allegiances, stir up dynasties. In a sense: to tangle the strings of crowned puppets even more. And here you are! Lecturing _me_ about predictions, which any old storyteller at the marketplace would be ashamed of because not only are they unbelievable, they’re for fools.”

Stregobor was undeterred. “You can have your reservations about Eltibald's theories, Geralt, about how the predictions were interpreted. But you can't challenge the fact that there have been horrendous mutations among girls born just after the eclipse.”

“And why not?” He challenged. “I’ve heard quite the opposite.”

“I was present when they did an autopsy on one of them,” said the wizard. His bushy brows pinched together and revealed his distaste. “Geralt, what we found inside the skull and marrow couldn’t be described. Some sort of red sponge-like substance. The internal organs were all mixed up, some were even missing completely. Everything was covered in moving cilia, bluish-pink shreds. The heart was six-chambered, with two chambers practically atrophied. What do you say to that?”

The witcher was unimpressed by this evidence. “I’ve seen people with eagles’ talons instead of hands, people with a wolf's fangs. People with additional joints, additional organs and additional senses. All of which were the effects of your messing about with magic.”

“You've seen all sorts of mutations, you say.” The magician raised his head. “And how many of them have you slaughtered for money, in keeping with your witcher's calling? Well? Because one can have a wolf's fangs and go no further than baring them at the trollops in taverns, or one can have a wolf's nature, too, and attack children. And that's just how it was with the girls who were born after the eclipse. Their outright _insane_ tendency to cruelty, aggression, sudden bursts of anger and an unbridled temperament were noted. These behavioral traits were present in every single one of them no matter where they came from.”

“You can say that about any woman,” sneered Geralt. “What are you driveling on about? You're asking me how many mutants I’ve killed. Why aren't you interested in how many I’ve extricated from spells, freed from curses? I, a witcher despised by you. And what have you done, you _mighty magicians?_ ”

Stregobor remained calm. “A higher magic was used. Ours and that of the priests, in various temples. All attempts ended in the girls’ deaths.”

“That speaks badly of you, then,” Geralt frowned. “Not the girls. And so we've now got the first corpses. I take it the only autopsies were done on them?”

“No. Don't look at me like that; you know very well that there were more corpses, too. It was initially decided, by the entirety of the Council, to eliminate all of them. We got rid of a few… autopsies were done on all of them. One of them was even vivisectioned.”

“And you sons of bitches have the nerve to criticize witchers?” Geralt was losing his patience again. He turned his gaze away, staring across the orchard. “Oh, Stregobor, the day will come when people will learn, and get the better of you.”

“I don't think a day like that will come soon,” said the wizard caustically, eyes following Geralt’s. “Don't forget that we were acting in the people's defense. The mutant girls would have drowned entire countries in blood if we hadn’t stepped in when we did.”

“So say you magicians, turning your noses up, so high and mighty with your auras of infallibility. While we're on the subject,” the witcher huffed, “surely you're not going to tell me that in your hunt for these so-called mutants you haven't once made a mistake?”

“All right,” said Stregobor after a long silence. It was damning. “I’ll be honest, although for my own sake I shouldn't. We did make a mistake—more than one, in fact. Picking them out from ordinary girls was extremely difficult. And that's why we stopped… getting rid of them, and started isolating them instead.”

“Your famous towers,” snorted the witcher. He knew where the story was going now. 

“Our towers.” Stregobor confirmed with a little sigh. “But that was another mistake. We underestimated them. Many escaped. Then some mad fashion to free imprisoned beauties took hold of princes, especially the younger ones, who didn't have much to do and still less to lose. Most of them, fortunately, twisted their necks—”

“As far as I know, those imprisoned in the towers died quickly. It's been said you must have helped them somewhat.” Geralt turned back to the wizard and examined his reaction closely. If Stregobor _dared_ lie now… 

“That's a lie.” Unsurprising answer. “But it is true that they quickly fell into apathy and refused to eat… What is interesting is that shortly before they died, they showed signs of the gift of clairvoyance. Further proof of mutation!”

“Your proofs are becoming ever less convincing. Do you have any more?”

“I do. Silvena, the lady of Narok, whom we never managed to get close to because she gained power so quickly. Terrible things are happening in Narok now. Fialka, Evermir's daughter, escaped her tower using a homemade rope and is now terrorizing North Velhad.” Stregobor continued down his list. “Bernika of Talgar was freed by an idiot prince. Now he's sitting in a dungeon, blinded, and the most common feature of the Talgar landscape is a set of gallows. There are other examples, too.”

“Of course there are,” said the witcher. “In Yamurlak, for instance, old man Abrad reigns. He's got scrofula, not a single tooth in his head, was probably born some hundred years before this eclipse, and can't fall asleep unless someone's being tortured to death in his presence. He's wiped out all his relatives and emptied half of the country in crazy—how did you put it? —attacks of anger. There are also traces of a rampant temperament. Apparently he was nicknamed ‘Abrad Jack-up-the-Skirt’ in his youth. Oh, Stregobor, it would be great if the cruelty of rulers could be explained away by mutations or curses. I suspect then that there would be many more we could list.”

“Listen, Geralt—” Stregobor held up a hand.

Geralt waved him off. “No. You won't win me over with your reasons nor convince me that Eltibad wasn't a murdering madman, so let's get back to the monster threatening you. You'd better understand that, after the introduction you've given me, I don't like the story. But I’ll still hear you out.”

“Without interrupting with spiteful comments?”

“That,” Geralt shrugged. “I can't promise.”

“Oh well”—Stregobor slipped his hands into the sleeves of his robe —“then it'll only take longer. Well, the story begins in Creyden, a small principality in the north. The wife of Fredefalk, the Prince of Creyden, was Aridea, a wise and educated woman. She had many exceptional adepts of the magical arts in her family and—through inheritance, no doubt—she came into possession of a rare and powerful artifact. One of Nehalenia's famed Mirrors. They're chiefly used by prophets and oracles because they predict the future accurately, albeit _intricately_. Aridea quite often turned to the Mirror—”

“With the usual question, I take it,” interrupted Geralt. “ _'Who is the fairest of them all?’_ I know; all Nehalenia's Mirrors are either polite or broken.”

“You're wrong.” The wizard shook his head. “Aridea was more interested in her country's fate. And the Mirror answered her questions by predicting a horrible death for her and for a great number of others by the hand, or fault, of Fredefalk's daughter from his first marriage. Aridea ensured this news reached the Council, and the Council sent me to Creyden. I don't have to add that Fredefalk's firstborn daughter was born shortly after the eclipse. I was quite discreet for a little while. She managed to torture a canary and two puppies during that time, and also gouged out a servant's eye with the handle of a comb. I carried out a few tests using curses, and most of them confirmed that the little one was a mutant. I went to Aridea with the news because Fredefalk's daughter meant the world to him. Aridea, as I said, wasn't stupid—”

“Of course,” Geralt interrupted again, “and no doubt she wasn't headover-heels in love with her stepdaughter. She preferred her own children to inherit the throne. I can guess what followed. How come nobody throttled her? And you, too, while they were at it.”

Stregobor sighed, raised his eyes to heaven, where the rainbow was still shimmering colorfully and picturesquely. “I wanted to isolate her, but Aridea decided otherwise. She sent the little one out into the forest with a hired thug, a trapper. We found him later in the undergrowth… without any trousers, so it wasn't hard to recreate the turn of events. She had dug a brooch-pin into his brain, through his ear, no doubt while his attention was on entirely _different_ matters.”

“If you think I feel sorry for him,” muttered Geralt, “then you're wrong.”

“We organized a manhunt,” continued Stregobor without further comment, “but all traces of the little one had disappeared. I had to leave Creyden in a hurry because Fredefalk was beginning to suspect something. Then, four years later I received news from Aridea. She'd tracked down the little one, who was living in Mahakam with seven gnomes whom she'd managed to convince it was more profitable to rob merchants on the roads than to pollute their lungs with dust from the mines. She was known as Shrike because she liked to impale the people she caught on a sharp pole while they were still alive. Several times Aridea hired assassins, but none of them returned. Well, then it became hard to find anyone to try—Shrike had already become quite famous. She'd learned to use a sword so well there was hardly a man who could defy her. I was summoned, and arrived in Creyden secretly, only to learn that someone had poisoned Aridea. It was generally believed that it was the work of Fredefalk, who had found himself a younger, more robust mistress—but I think it was Renfri.”

“Renfri?”

“That's what she was called. I said she'd poisoned Aridea. Shortly afterward, Prince Fredefalk died in a strange hunting accident, and Aridea's eldest son disappeared without a word. That must have been the little one's doing, too. I say ‘little’ but she was seventeen by then. And she was pretty well-developed.

“Meanwhile,” the wizard picked up after a moment's break, “she and her gnomes had become the terror of the whole of Mahakam. Until, one day, they argued about something. I don't know what—sharing out the loot, or whose turn it was to spend the night with her—anyway, they slaughtered each other with knives. Only Shrike survived. Only her. And I was in the neighborhood at the time. We met face-to-face: she recognized me in a flash and knew the part I’d played in Creyden. I tell you, Geralt, I had barely managed to utter a curse—and my hands were shaking like anything—when that wildcat flew at me with a sword. I turned her into a neat slab of mountain crystal, six ells by nine. When she fell into a lethargy, I threw the slab into the gnomes’ mine and brought the tunnels down on it.”

“Shabby work,” noted Geralt as he learned further back into the wicker chair. “That spell could have been reversed. Couldn't you have burnt her to cinders? You know _so many_ nice spells, after all.”

“No. It's not my speciality. But you're right. I did make a hash of it.” He sighed once more. “Some idiot prince found her, spent a fortune on a counter-curse, reversed the spell and triumphantly took her home to some out-of-the-way kingdom in the east. His father, an old brigand, proved to have more sense. He gave his son a hiding, and questioned Shrike about the treasures which she and the gnomes had seized and which she'd hidden. His mistake was to allow his elder son to assist him when he had her stretched out, naked, on the executioner's bench. Somehow, the following day, that same eldest son— now an orphan bereft of siblings—was ruling the kingdom, and Shrike had taken over the office of first favorite.”

“Meaning she can't be ugly.”

“That's a matter of _taste_. She wasn't a favorite for long. Up until the first coup d’état at the palace, to give it a grand name—it was more like a barn. It soon became clear that she hadn't forgotten about me. She tried to assassinate me three times in Kovir. I decided not to risk a fourth attempt and to wait her out in Pontar. Again, she found me. That time I escaped to Angren, but she found me there too. I don't know how she does it! I cover my traces well.” Stregobor mused quietly. “It must be a feature of her mutation.”

Geralt sighed this time, “What stopped you from casting another spell to turn her into crystal? Scruples?”

“No. I don't have any of those. She had become resistant to magic.”

“That's impossible.”

“It's not.” The wizard was completely serious. “It's enough to have the right artifact or aura. Or this could also be associated with her mutation, which is progressing. I escaped from Angren and hid here, in Arcsea, in Blaviken. I’ve lived in peace for a year, but she's tracked me down again.”

“How do you know?” Geralt’s brow furrowed. “Is she already in town?”

“Yes. I saw her in the crystal ball.” The wizard raised his wand. “She's not alone. She's leading a gang, which shows me that she's brewing something serious. Geralt, I don't have anywhere else to run. I don't know where I could hide. The fact that you've arrived here exactly at this time can't be a coincidence. It's _fate_.”

The witcher raised his eyebrows. “What's on your mind?”

“Surely it's obvious. You're going to kill her.”

“I’m not a hired thug, Stregobor.”

“You're not a thug, agreed.” The wizard nodded politely. 

“I kill monsters for money.” Geralt went on. “Beasts which endanger people. Horrors conjured up by spells and sorceries cast by the likes of you. Not people.”

“She's not human!” Stregobor raised his voice. “She's exactly a monster: a mutant, a cursed mutant. You brought a kikimora here. Shrike's _worse_ than a kikimora. A kikimora kills because it's hungry, but Shrike does it for pleasure. Kill her and I’ll pay you whatever sum you ask. Within good reason, of course.”

“I’ve already told you.” The witcher pressed. “I consider this story of yours about mutations and Lilit's curse to be utter nonsense. The girl has her reasons for settling her account with you, and I’m not going to get mixed up in it. Turn to the alderman, to the town guards. You're the town wizard; you're protected by municipal law.”

“I spit on the law, the alderman and his _help!_ ” exploded Stregobor. “I don't need defense. I need you to kill her! Nobody's going to get into this tower—I’m completely safe here. But what's that to me? I don't intend to spend the rest of my days here, and Shrike's not going to give up while I’m alive. Am I to sit here, in this tower, and wait for death?”

“ _They did_.” Geralt snarled. “Do you know what, magician? You should have left that hunt for the girls to other, more powerful, wizards. You should have foreseen the consequences.”

“ _Please_ , Geralt.”

“No, Stregobor.” His voice was firm. 

The sorcerer fell silent. The unreal sun in its unreal sky hadn't moved toward the zenith but the witcher knew it was already dusk in Blaviken. He felt hungry, and tired of bullshit. This entire visit was a waste of his time. 

“Geralt,” said Stregobor once more, “when we were listening to Eltibald, many of us had doubts. But we decided to accept the lesser evil. Now I ask you to make a similar choice. If not for my sake, for the sake of the people of Blaviken.”

“Evil is evil, Stregobor,” said the witcher seriously as he got up from the wicker chair. Despite his initial content with the tower’s illusion, it was beginning to tire him. “Lesser, greater, middling, it's all the same. Proportions are negotiated, boundaries blurred. I’m not a pious hermit. I haven't done only good in my life. But if I’m to choose between one evil and another, then I prefer not to choose at all. Time for me to go. We'll see each other tomorrow.”

“Maybe,” said the wizard. “If you get here in time.”


	8. The Tridam Ultimatum (Part One)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much of this chapter is from Sapkowski himself, from _The Last Wish_ , which I have edited and added my own touches to. Many Witcher fans haven't read the novels so if you like the writing in this chapter, I urge you to go give them a read! In this chapter, everything up until Ruselm arrives is Sapkowski's work. After Ruselm is in Blaviken, though, is my own work.

**THE GOLDEN COURT** , the country town's elegant inn, was overly crowded and awfully noisy. The guests, both locals and visitors, were mostly engaged in activities typical for their nation or profession. Serious merchants argued with dwarves over the price of goods and credit interest. Less serious merchants pinched the backsides of the girls carrying beer, cabbage and beans. Local nitwits pretended to be well-informed. Harlots were trying to please those who had money while discouraging those who had none. Carters and fishermen drank as if there were no tomorrow, spilling alcohol all over their fronts. Some seamen were singing a song which celebrated the ocean waves, the courage of captains and the graces of mermaids, the latter graphically and in considerable detail, which the witcher expected nothing less from them. 

“Exert your memory, friend,” Caldemeyn said discretely to the innkeeper, leaning across the counter in order to be heard over the din. The alderman had met up with Geralt after he’d left Stregobor’s tower, just after the kikimora had been disposed of. “Six men and a wench, all dressed in black leather studded with silver in the Novigradian style. I saw them at the turnpike earlier. Are they staying here or at The Tuna Fish?”

The innkeeper wrinkled his bulging forehead and wiped a tankard on his striped apron morosely. “Here, Alderman,” he finally said. “They say they've come for the market but they all carry swords, even the woman. Dressed, as you said, in black. Clearly Novigradian.”

“Well.” The alderman nodded. “Where are they now? I don't see them.”

“In the lesser alcove. They paid in gold.”

“I’ll go in alone,” said Geralt, excusing himself from the innkeeper who continued to give him nasty sideways glances and the alderman. “There's no point in making this an official affair in front of them all, at least for the time being. I’ll bring her out here.”

“Maybe that's best.” Caldemeyn nodded. “But be careful, I don't want any trouble.”

“I’ll be careful.”

The seamen's song, judging by the growing intensity and number of obscene words, was reaching its grand finale. Geralt drew aside the curtain of the lesser alcove—stiff and sticky with dirt—which hid the entrance to the small space. Six men were seated at the table, stretched out to various degrees as they relaxed. Shrike wasn't with them.

“What'd’you want?” yelled the man who noticed him first. He was balding and his face was disfigured by a scar which ran across his left eyebrow, the bridge of his nose and his right cheek.

“I want to see Shrike.” Geralt remained stoic, examining them each separately. 

Two identical figures stood up—identical motionless faces and fair, disheveled, shoulder-length hair, identical tight-fitting black outfits glistening with silver ornaments. And with identical movements, the twins took identical swords from the bench into their identical hands. 

“Keep calm, Vyr. Sit down, Nimir,” said the man with the scar, leaning his elbows on the table. “Who d'you say you want to see, brother? Who's Shrike?”

“You know very well who I mean.”

“Who's this, then?” asked a half-naked athlete, sweaty, girded crosswise with belts, and wearing spiked pads on his forearms. “D’you know him, Nohorn?”

“No,” said the man with the scar. His name was Nohorn. 

“It's some albino,” giggled a slim, dark-haired man sitting next to Nohorn. Delicate features, enormous black eyes and pointed ears betrayed him to be a half-blood elf. “Albino, mutant, _freak_ of nature. And this sort of thing is allowed to enter pubs among decent people? How cute.”

“I’ve seen him somewhere before,” said a stocky, weather-beaten man with a plait, measuring Geralt with an evil look in his narrowed eyes. He leaned forward on his elbows, Geralt stiffened slightly. 

“Doesn't matter where you've seen him, Tavik,” said Nohorn before he directed his next words to the witcher himself. “Listen here. Civril insulted you terribly a moment ago. Aren't you going to challenge him? It's such a _boring_ evening.”

“No,” said the witcher calmly.

“And me, if I pour this fish soup over your head, are you going to challenge me?” cackled the man sitting naked to the waist.

“Keep calm, Fifteen,” said Nohorn. “He said no, that means no. For the time being. Well, brother, say what you have to say and clear out. You've got one chance to clear out on your own. You don't take it, and the attendants will carry you out.”

“I don't have anything to say to you.” Geralt pressed. “I want to see Shrike. Renfri.”

“Do you hear that, boys?” Nohorn looked around at his companions. “He wants to see Renfri. And may I know why?”

“No.”

Nohorn raised his head and looked at the twins as they took a step forward, the silver clasps on their high boots jangling.

“I know,” the man with the plait said suddenly. “I know where I’ve seen him now!”

“What's that you're mumbling, Tavik?”

“In front of the alderman's house! He brought some sort of dragon in to trade, a cross between a spider and a crocodile. People were saying he's a fucking witcher.”

“And what's a witcher?” Fifteen asked stupidly. “Eh? Civril?”

“A hired magician,” said the half-elf. “A conjurer for a fistful of silver. I told you, a freak of nature. An insult to human and divine laws. They ought to be burned, the likes of him.”

“We don't like magicians,” screeched Tavik, not taking his narrowed eyes off Geralt. “It seems to me, Civril, that we're going to have more work in this hole than we thought. There's more than one of them here and _everyone knows_ they stick together.”

“Birds of a feather.” The half-breed smiled maliciously. “To think the likes of you walk the earth. Who spawns you freaks?”

“A bit more tolerance, if you please,” said Geralt calmly, no small measure of annoyance creeping into his voice, “as I see your mother must have wandered off through the forest alone often enough to give you good reason to wonder where you come from yourself.”

“Possibly,” answered the half-elf, the wicked smile not leaving his face. “But at least I _knew_ my mother. You witchers can't say that much about yourselves.”

Geralt grew a little pale and tightened his lips. His own feelings about the matter of his mother were repressed, but the half-breed was right. Nohorn, noticing the witcher’s reaction, laughed out loud.

“Well, brother, you can't let an insult like that go by! Those things that you have on your back look like swords. So? Are you going outside with Civril? The evening's so boring, as I’ve said before.”

The witcher didn't react.

“Shitty coward,” snorted Tavik.

“What did he say about Civril's mother?” Nohorn continued monotonously, resting his chin on his clasped hands. “Something extremely nasty, as I understood it. That she was an easy lay, or something. Hey, Fifteen, is it right to listen to some straggler insulting a companion's mother? A mother, you son of a bitch, is sacred!”

Fifteen got up willingly, undid his sword and threw it on the table. He stuck his chest out as though it were something to marvel at, adjusted the pads spiked with silver studs on his shoulders, spat and took a step forward. 

“If you've got any doubts,” said Nohorn, “then Fifteen is challenging you to a fistfight, witcher. I told you they'd carry you out of here. Make room.”

Fifteen moved closer and raised his fists. Geralt cautiously put his hand on the hilt of his steel sword. 

“Careful,” he said. “One more step and you'll be looking for your hand on the floor.”

Nohorn and Tavik leapt up, grabbing their swords. The silent twins drew theirs with identical movements. Fifteen stepped back. Only Civril didn't move. A new voice, feminine, interrupted the standstill. 

“What's going on here, damnit? Can't I leave you alone for a single minute?”

Geralt turned around very slowly and looked into eyes the color of the sea itself. This was the girl he was looking for. She was almost as tall as him and she wore her dark hair unevenly cut, just below the ears. She stood with one hand on the door, wearing a tight, velvet jacket clasped with a decorated belt. Her skirt was uneven, asymmetrical—reaching down to her calf on the left side and, on the right, revealing a strong thigh above a boot made of elk's leather. On her left side, she carried a sword; on her right, a dagger with a huge ruby set in its pommel. Geralt knew it had to be expensive. 

“Lost your voices?” The girl pushed. 

“He's a witcher,” mumbled Nohorn, eyes averted. 

“So what?”

“He wanted to talk to you.”

“So what?”

“He's a sorcerer!” Fifteen roared.

“We don't like sorcerers,” snarled Tavik.

“Take it easy, boys,” said the girl. “He wants to talk to me; that's no crime. You carry on having a good time. And no trouble. Tomorrow's market day. Surely you don't want your pranks to disrupt the market, such an important event in the life of this pleasant town?”

A quiet, nasty giggle reverberated in the silence which fell. Civril, still sprawled out carelessly on the bench, was laughing.

“Come on, Renfri,” chuckled the half-blood. “Important… event!”

“Shut up, Civril. Immediately.”

Civril stopped laughing. _Immediately_ , the witcher noticed, his voice being cut off abruptly as though his vocal chords were being pressed down upon. He wasn't surprised. There was something very strange in Renfri's voice—something associated with the red reflection of fire on blades, the wailing of people being murdered, the whinnying of horses and the smell of blood. Others in the room must also have had similar associations—even Tavik's weather-beaten face grew pale after her command. 

“Well, white-hair,” Renfri broke the silence, turning to Geralt. “Let's go into the larger room. Let's join the alderman you came with. He wants to talk to me too, no doubt.”

And she was right. At the sight of them, Caldemeyn, who was still waiting at the counter, broke off his quiet conversation with the innkeeper, straightened himself and folded his arms across his chest as though to appear more authoritative.

“Listen, young lady,” Caldemeyn said severely, not wasting time with banal niceties, “I know from this witcher of Rivia here what brings you to Blaviken. Apparently you bear a grudge against our dear wizard.”

“Maybe. What of it?” asked Renfri quietly, in an equally brusque tone.

“Only that there are tribunals to deal with grudges like that. He who wants to revenge a grudge using steel—here in Arcsea—is considered a common bandit. And also, that either you get out of Blaviken early in the morning with your black-wearing companions, or I throw you into prison, pre—” Caldemeyn glanced at the witcher, eyes helpless. “How do you say it, Geralt?”

“Preventively.”

“Exactly.” Caldemeyn nodded. “Understood, young lady?”

Renfri reached into the purse on her belt and pulled out a parchment which had been folded several times. “Read this, Alderman. If you're literate. And _don't_ call me ‘young lady.’”

Caldemeyn quickly took the parchment, spent a long time reading it, then, without a word, gave it to Geralt.

“’To my regents, vassals and freemen subjects,’” the witcher read out loud. “’To all and sundry. I proclaim that Renfri, the Princess of Creyden, remains in our service and is well seen by us; whosoever dares maltreet her will incur our wrath. Audoen, King—’Maltreat is not spelled like that.” Geralt was displeased. “But the seal appears authentic.”

“Because it _is_ authentic,” snapped Renfri, snatching the parchment from him. “It was affixed by Audoen, your merciful lord. That's why I don't advise you to maltreat me. Irrespective of how you spell it, the consequences for you would be lamentable. You are not, honorable Alderman, going to put me in prison. Or call me ‘young lady.’ I haven't infringed upon any laws here. For the time being.”

“If you infringe by even an inch”—Caldemeyn looked as if he wanted to spit—“I’ll throw you in the dungeon together with this piece of paper. I swear on all the gods, young lady. Come on, Geralt.”

They turned to leave when Renfri caught Geralt’s shoulder. “With you, witcher.” Renfri said quietly. “I’d still like a word.”

“Don't be late for supper,” the alderman threw over his shoulder, halfway out the door, “or Libushe will be furious.”

“I won't.”

Geralt leaned against the counter. Fiddling with the wolf's head medallion hanging around his neck, he looked into the girl's blue-green eyes. Curiosity pricked the back of his mind as he looked at her, but he forced himself to stay silent until she had spoken her piece. 

“I’ve heard about you,” she started. “You're Geralt, the white-haired witcher from Rivia. Is Stregobor your friend?”

“No.” He answered easily. 

“That makes things easier.”

“Not much.” Geralt shrugged. “Don't expect me to look on peacefully.”

Renfri's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. “Stregobor dies tomorrow,” she said slowly, brushing the unevenly cut hair off of her forehead. “It would be the lesser evil if he died alone.”

Ah, here it was again. The _‘lesser evil’_ as they kept putting it. Geralt was getting tired of hearing that term used so loosely. A spark of anger burst into flame in his chest. “If he did, yes.” Geralt couldn’t deny the truth. “But in fact, before Stregobor dies, several other people will die too. I don't see any other possibility.”

“Several, witcher, is putting it mildly.”

“You need more than words to frighten me, Shrike.”

“Don't call me Shrike. I don't like it.” Renfri frowned. “The point is, I see other possibilities. It would be worth talking it over… but Libushe is waiting. Is she pretty, this Libushe?”  
Geralt straightened himself to leave, avoiding her question. It wasn’t really something she wanted to know. “Is that all you had to say to me?”

“No. But you should go.” Renfri gave him a little smile. “Libushe's waiting.”

**BLAVIKEN HELD A** new sense of wonder and awe for Ruselm. Having never been so close to Arcsea before and only hearing of it by rather vague word of mouth, the young man was very interested in everything the country village had to offer. 

His heart still aches when his thoughts wander, namely to the Old Bear, but the memory of the sin is still fresh. There are moments that Ruselm has to remind himself in a chiding tone, the kind a parent would use with their petulant child, that his pain will pass.

And for a moment, he believes his own lie. 

The distraction a new town could offer, though. That was too good to pass up. So he allowed himself to be lured by Blaviken’s dwellers and the mysterious way the town buzzed in apprehension—or was it anticipation?—of some fast-approaching event. New smells wafted under his nose; sizzling kabobs which skewered all manner of meat and vegetables, dried jerky, freshly baked bread and melting margarine, sweets like cookies or sugar dolls which Ruselm had been very fond of as a child, and even the otherworldly scent of melted cheese with mushrooms and fish tossed together had his mouth watering. Ruselm was hungry. 

Every town could be summed together by its smell; something Ruselm was always determined to experience during his visits. Most travelers focused on the sights and sounds but he had always been more concerned with the _feelings_ and _emotions_ that could be evoked from him with the right smell or taste or with the way something looked. 

Right now, he was calm and distracted, at least.

And hungry. Very, very hungry. 

There was an old man off to the side of Blaviken’s main road with a cabbage stand where he was lovingly rearranging the heads of cabbage. Beside him was another stand, a younger woman (younger than Ruselm) was selling what looked to be dried meat and fish. Just behind her shoulder hung a slab of sun-dried meat from a metal hook. Fish were displayed neatly on a little rack, their scales flaky but salted. 

Ruselm approached the girl, a gentle smile on his face. “A good afternoon to you, miss!” He greeted her. “How much will a few coins get me at your fine stand?”

The girl, a pretty brunette with big doe eyes and the thinnest form he’d ever seen, returned his easy smile. She had a soft voice. “A good afternoon to you, too, sir. It’ll get you five or so strips of meat. Maybe a bit of fish, if you’d prefer. I caught ‘em myself.”

Ruselm raised an eyebrow curiously.

“The fish, I mean.”

“Of course,” he laughed a little and dug some coins from his pocket, which he set on the counter in front of him. The man from the cabbage stand was unsuccessfully trying not to stare, his eyes burning holes into Ruselm’s head. “I’ll take whatever you give me.”

She nodded and set to work sharpening a dull knife for a few moments, the sound of metal scraping against metal filling the street. 

_Tsskk, tsskk. Tsskk, tsskk._

Ruselm waited patiently, watching the girl at work. She couldn’t be more than fifteen, he guessed. Her cheeks revealed how she really was. Her cheekbones were prominent with a gaunt quality and her chin was pointy, she had a small forehead but her face was decorated by a spray of freckles covering her pale skin and dotting her nose. He knew better than to ask for her name, it probably wouldn’t be given even if he did inquire. 

_Tsskk, tsskk. Tsskk, tsskk._

Satisfied with the blade of the knife, the girl turned to the meat hanging from its hook behind her and cut four individual strips about as long as Ruselm’s forearm. She placed them in a small brown paper bag and turned to the fish on the rack, biting the inside of her cheek as she selected a small but succulent fish to put inside of the bag too. 

With a smile, she pushed the bag across the counter and set about cleaning her knife. 

“Thank you.” Ruselm bowed his head as he grabbed the bag. 

Moving on down the street, it wasn’t long before Ruselm caught sight of what he knew to be an inn. ‘The Golden Court’ was its name, and despite such an elegant picture the name painted, the outside of the inn wasn’t very promising. The wood was peeling, the doors creaked when he pushed them open with one hand, and the lighting inside wasn’t very bright either. There was all manner of people inside of the inn and he could tell there were more present, too, hidden in the alcoves all around the main room. 

Sidling up to the counter where the innkeeper stood, wiping glasses on his striped apron, Ruselm flashed the older man a bright smile. They exchanged no words as he pulled a strip of meat from the bag, tearing it in half to a manageable size. The meat was salted and seasoned with spices bearing a kick so strong it reminded the Nazairian of the old breakfast Sibren was in charge of making for him and his father every morning. 

Ruselm chewed thoughtfully, content to sit in silence. 

That was until a dark brunette approached him, her hair unevenly cut and curling inward at the ends. Her skin was fair, her eyes such a blue that Ruselm decided he could easily drown in their depths, and she was just a little taller than he was. There was some measure of darkness to her features, whether it lurked behind her eyes or within the smirk that crept onto her lips as she made eye contact with Ruselm.

He wasn’t entirely sure whether he liked the shadows of her features or not. 

“What’s in your bag?” Her voice reminded him of something too good to be true. 

Ruselm half-turned to face the woman as she sat beside him. The innkeeper carefully turned away, making a show to mind his own business as he avoided eye contact with both Ruselm and the girl. He opened the top of the bag and moved to show her. 

“Meat, a fish.” Ruselm shrugged. She leaned over, looking inside. 

Without a word, the woman reached her hand in and grabbed the other half of the dried meat he’d torn in half. She took a contemplative bite, watching Ruselm’s surprise as he closed the bag again and leaned back in his seat. 

“It’s good,” she remarked. 

He hummed his agreement, mind whirling with questions. Who was she? Why did she take some of his food? Why did he feel a sense of impending danger and pain every time their eyes met? What made her approach him? What did she want? 

“ _Tell me_ ,” her voice had some hidden command behind it. Ruselm was listening closely. “What brings you to Blaviken?”

Before Ruselm could take time to think about his answer, the words spilled out of him. They were all truthful. “I’m here because I heard this is where a witcher is. I’ve come looking for him, I want to talk to him.”

_What was that?_ It was like he’d had no control of himself. 

“Geralt of Rivia?”

Ruselm’s answer came as quickly as the last one. “Yes.”

_Strange. Scary, even._

The woman appeared satisfied with his answer. She nodded and chewed morosely on another bite of the dried meat, tearing a piece free with her teeth like a cat viciously eating their next, and possibly last, meal. “What’ve you got to talk to him about?”

He opened his mouth but wanted to stop himself. There was a pause in the one-sided conversation, one which she quickly noticed. Her eyes narrowed and another strange feeling, an entity that wasn’t part of him, washed over his senses. 

Ruselm caved against his own will. “Thetdow. And his work.”

Her lips curled into a self-satisfied smile. “What’s your name?”

“Ruselm.”

“Of Nazair, I’m guessing.”

“Of Nazair.”

“Quaint.” She remarked, eyes roving over his attire very briefly. “I’m Renfri.”

He inclined his head, shifting in his seat uncomfortably. The feeling from before faded, ebbing away slowly into the abyss. Renfri was making Ruselm begin to question where this was going. “Renfri,” he repeated, testing the name. It suited her in a bad kind of way. “Every time you ask a question, I answer it before I even know what I’m going to say. Why?”

Renfri’s smirk became devilish. “Why do you think?”

Ruselm’s mind turned over itself, the cogs working to form a clear answer. Why? Could she be using magic? It would be unlike any he’d witnessed or heard of before. Was Renfri just charismatic? One glance at the woman made Ruselm think otherwise. What was the answer? 

The young man shrugged, more than a little perturbed. 

“You don’t think I’m some witch? A cursed monster?” She sounded surprised. 

“No,” said Ruselm. “If you’re using magic, it would have to be some of which that has never been encountered before. And you’re clearly not a monster. I just don’t know how you’re doing it.”

Renfri seemed content with his answer. Then she said, “I can make people do things. I can make _men_ do things,”—her correction didn’t go unnoticed—“just by saying something. They can’t deny me.”

“And why is that?” Ruselm tilted his head, curiosity lining his features. He leaned closer to Renfri as he moved to the edge of his seat, taking a small bite of the meat he had yet to finish that sat clutched between his fingertips. She was certainly an interesting character, he had to give her that. If the things Renfri claimed were true, it would only make sense that he answered every question she posed because of this unnatural ability. He briefly wondered how she came to have it in the first place. 

“You ever heard of the Curse of the Black Sun?”


	9. The Tridam Ultimatum (Part Two)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much of this chapter is from Sapkowski himself, from _The Last Wish_ , which I have edited and added my own touches to. Many Witcher fans haven't read the novels so if you like the writing in this chapter, I urge you to go give them a read! As with the last chapter, everything, until Ruselm arrives, is Sapkowski's work. After Ruselm's bit, it returns to Sapkowski yet again. Remember, this is Sapkowski's work but it has undergone my editing so it won't be exactly the same as it is in the original books.

**THERE WAS SOMEONE** in Geralt’s little attic room. The witcher knew it before he even reached the door, sensing it through the barely perceptible vibration of his medallion which hung faithfully around his neck. It startled an awakeness in his heart and alerted him to the presence which could only be lurking in the darkness. 

He blew out the oil lamp which had lit his path up the stairs, pulled the dagger from his boot, slipped it into the back of his belt and pressed the door handle with an exaggeratedly slow movement. The room was dark. But not for a witcher.

Geralt was deliberately cautious in crossing the threshold; he closed the door behind him carefully to avoid making noise. The next second, he dived at the person sitting on his bed, crushed them into the linen, forced his forearm under their chin as he reached for his dagger.

He didn't pull it out. Something wasn't right.

“Not a bad start,” she said in a muffled voice, lying motionless beneath him. “I expected something like this, but I didn't think we'd both be in bed so quickly. Take your hand from my throat please.”

“It's you.”

“It's me. Now there are two possibilities. The first: you get off me and we talk. The second: we stay in this position, in which case I’d like to take my boots off, at least.”  


The witcher released the girl, who sighed, sat up and adjusted her hair and skirt with rough hands. “Light the candle,” she commanded. “I can't see in the dark, unlike you, and I like to see who I’m talking to.”

Geralt obeyed silently. The flame sparked up easily and light flooded the space between them. Renfri approached the table—tall, slim, agile—and sat down, stretching out her long legs in their high boots like a cat. She wasn't carrying any visible weapons. “Have you got anything to drink here?”

“No.”

“Then it's a good thing I brought something,” she laughed, placing a traveling wineskin and two leather tumblers on the table. 

“It's nearly midnight,” said Geralt coldly. “Shall we come to the point?”

“In a minute. Here, have a drink. Here's to you, Geralt.”

“Likewise, Shrike.”

“My name's Renfri, damnit.” She raised her head. “I will permit you to omit my royal title, but stop calling me Shrike!”

“Be quiet or you'll wake the whole house.” Geralt snapped. “Am I _finally_ going to learn why you crept in here through the window?”

Renfri huffed as though she were disappointed. “You're slow-witted, witcher. I want to save Blaviken from slaughter. I crawled over the rooftops like a she-cat in March in order to talk to you about it. Appreciate my gesture.”

“I do,” said Geralt in a gentler voice. He relaxed slightly, genuinely pleased that there was a chance to talk this through even if he didn’t believe much could be accomplished. He felt the need to say as such, “Except that I don't know what talk can achieve. The situation's clear. Stregobor is in his tower, and you'd have to lay siege to it in order to get to him. If you do that, your letter of safe conduct won't help you. Audoen won't defend you if you openly break the law. The alderman, guards, the whole of Blaviken will stand against you.”

“The whole of Blaviken would regret standing up to me.” Renfri smiled, revealing a predator's white teeth. It was eerie. “Did you take a look at my boys? They know their trade, I assure you. Can you imagine what would happen in a fight between them and those dimwit guards who keep tripping over their own halberds?”

Geralt, in contrast, frowned. “Do you imagine I would stand by and watch a fight like that? I’m staying at the alderman's, as you can see. If the need arises, I should stand at his side.”

“I have no doubt”—Renfri grew serious—“that you will. But you'll probably be alone, as the rest will cower in the cellars. No warrior in the world could match seven swordsmen. So, white-hair, let's stop threatening each other. As I said: slaughter and bloodshed can be avoided. There are two people who can prevent it.”

The witcher wanted to laugh at her assumption, but thought better of it. “I’m all ears.”

“ _One_ ,” said Renfri, “is Stregobor himself. He leaves his tower voluntarily, I take him to a deserted spot, and Blaviken sinks back into blissful apathy and forgets the whole affair.”

“Stregobor may seem crazy,” Geralt remarked, “but he's not that crazy.”

“Who knows, witcher, who knows?” Renfri shrugged nonchalantly, like his answer didn’t matter. “Some arguments can't be denied, like the Tridam ultimatum. I plan to present it to the sorcerer.”

His curiosity was piqued. “What is it, this ultimatum?”

Her smile grew vicious. “That's my sweet secret.”

“As you wish.” Geralt knew pressing her for more would only result in an endless circle. “But I doubt it'll be effective. Stregobor's teeth chatter when he speaks of you. An ultimatum which would persuade him to voluntarily surrender himself into your beautiful hands would have to be pretty good. So who's the other person? Let me guess.”  


“I wonder how sharp you are, white-hair.”

Geralt continued without pause. “It's _you_ , Renfri. You'll reveal a truly princely—what am I saying, royal magnanimity and renounce your revenge. Have I guessed?”

Renfri threw back her head and laughed, covering her mouth with her hand. Then she grew silent and fixed her shining eyes on the witcher. “Geralt,” she said, “I used to be a princess. I had everything I could dream of. Servants at my beck and call, dresses, shoes. Cambric knickers. Jewels and trinkets, ponies, goldfish in a pond. Dolls, and a doll's house bigger than this room. That was my life until Stregobor and that whore Aridea ordered a huntsman to butcher me in the forest and bring back my heart and liver. Lovely, don't you think?”

“No. I’m pleased you evaded the huntsman, Renfri.”

“Like shit I did. He took pity on me and let me go. After the son of a bitch raped me and robbed me first.”

Geralt, fiddling with his medallion, looked her straight in the eyes. She didn't lower hers. There wasn’t much he found he could say. 

“That was the end of the princess,” she continued. “The dress grew torn, the cambric grew grubby. And then there was dirt, hunger, stench, stink and abuse. Selling myself to any old bum for a bowl of soup or a roof over my head. Do you know what my hair was like? Silk. And it reached a good foot below my hips. I had it cut right to the scalp with sheep-shears when I caught lice. It's never grown back properly.”

She was silent for a moment, idly brushing the uneven strands of hair from her forehead. “I stole rather than starve to death. I killed to avoid being killed myself. I was locked in prisons which stank of urine, never knowing if they would hang me in the morning, or just flog me and release me. And through it all, my stepmother and your sorcerer were hard on my heels, with their poisons and assassins and spells. And you want me to reveal my magnanimity? To forgive him royally? I’ll tear his head off, _royally_ , first.”

“Aridea and Stregobor tried to poison you?” This came as news to the witcher. 

With a nod, Renfri confirmed his query. “With an apple seasoned with nightshade. I was saved by a gnome, and an emetic I thought would turn my insides out. But I survived.”  


“Was that one of the seven gnomes?”

Renfri, pouring wine, froze holding the wineskin over the tumbler. “Ah,” she said. “You do know a lot about me. Yes? Do you have something against gnomes? Or humanoids? They were better to me than most people, not that it's your business.

“Stregobor and Aridea hunted me like a wild animal as long as they could. Until I became the hunter. Aridea died in her own bed. She was lucky I didn't get to her earlier—I had a special plan for her, and now I’ve got one for the sorcerer. Do you think he deserves to die?”

“I’m no judge. I’m a witcher.”

“You are. I said that there were two people who could prevent bloodshed in Blaviken. The second is you. The sorcerer will let you into the tower. You could kill him.”

“Renfri,” said Geralt calmly, “did you fall from the roof onto your head on the way to my room?”

“Are you a witcher or aren't you, damnit? They say you killed a kikimora and brought it here on a donkey to get a price for it. Stregobor is worse than the kikimora. It's just a mindless beast which kills because that's how the gods made it. Stregobor is a brute, a true monster. Bring him to me on a donkey and I won't begrudge you any sum you care to mention.”

“I’m not a hired thug, Shrike.”

“You're not,” she agreed with a smile. She leaned back on the stool and crossed her legs on the table without the slightest effort to cover her thighs with her skirt. “You're a witcher, a defender of people from evil. And evil is the steel and fire which will cause devastation here if we fight each other. Don't you think I’m proposing a lesser evil, a better solution? Even for that son of a bitch Stregobor. You can kill him mercifully, with one thrust. He'll die without knowing it. And I guarantee him quite the reverse.”

Geralt remained silent. Renfri stretched, raising her arms.

“I understand your hesitation,” she said. “But I need an answer now.”

“Do you know why Stregobor and the king's wife wanted to kill you?”

Renfri straightened abruptly and took her legs off the table. “It's obvious,” she snarled. “I am heir to the throne. Aridea's children were born out of wedlock and don't have any right to—”

“No.” Geralt knew the true answer, he just wanted to hear Renfri admit it. 

Renfri lowered her head, but only for a moment. Her eyes flashed. She knew she was caught. “ _Fine_. I’m supposed to be cursed. Contaminated in my mother's womb. I’m supposed to be…”

“Yes?”

“A monster.”

He nods slowly. “And are you?”

For a fleeting moment she looked helpless, shattered. And very sad. While sadness was the dominant emotion, there was some measure of anger hidden behind her eyes. “I don't know, Geralt,” she whispered, and then her features hardened again. “Because how am I to know, damnit? When I cut my finger, I bleed. I bleed every month, too. I get bellyache when I overeat, and a hangover when I get drunk. When I’m happy I sing and I swear when I’m sad. When I hate someone I kill them and when—But enough of this! Your answer, witcher.”

“My answer is no.”

“You remember what I said?” she asked after a moment's silence. “There are offers you can't refuse, the consequences are so terrible, and this is one of them. Think it over.”  


“I have thought carefully. And my suggestion was as serious.”

Renfri was silent for some time, fiddling with a string of pearls wound three times around her shapely neck before falling teasingly between her breasts, their curves just visible through the slit of her jacket. She was beautiful, in a sad way. 

“Geralt,” she began, “did Stregobor ask you to kill me?”

“Yes. He believed it was the lesser evil.”

“Can I believe you refused him, as you have me?”

“You can.”

“Why?”

Geralt sighs softly. “Because I don't believe in a lesser evil.”

Renfri smiled faintly, an ugly grimace in the yellow candlelight. “You don't believe in it, you say. Well you're right, in a way. Only Evil and Greater Evil exist and beyond them, in the shadows, lurks True Evil. True Evil, Geralt, is something you can barely imagine, even if you believe nothing can still surprise you. And sometimes True Evil seizes you by the throat and demands that you choose between it and another, slightly lesser, Evil.”

“What's your goal here, Renfri?”

“Nothing. I’ve had a bit to drink and I’m philosophising. I’m looking for general truths. And I’ve found one: lesser evils exist, but we can't choose them. Only True Evil can force us to such a choice. Whether we like it or not.”

“Maybe I’ve not had enough to drink.” The witcher smiled sourly. “And in the meantime midnight's passed, the way it does. Let's speak plainly. You're not going to kill Stregobor in Blaviken because I’m not going to let you. I’m not going to let it come to a slaughter here. So, for the second time, renounce your revenge. Prove to him, to everyone, that you're not an inhuman and bloodthirsty monster. Prove he has done you great harm through his mistake.”

For a moment Renfri watched the witcher's medallion spinning as he twisted the chain. “And if I tell you, witcher, that I can neither forgive Stregobor nor renounce my revenge then I admit that he is right, is that it? I’d be proving that I am a monster cursed by the gods? You know, when I was still new to this life, a freeman took me in. He took a fancy to me, even though I found him repellent. So every time he wanted to fuck me, he had to beat me so hard I could barely move, even the following day. One morning I rose while it was still dark and slashed his throat with a scythe. I wasn't yet as skilled as I am now, and a knife seemed too small. And as I listened to him gurgle and choke, watched him kicking and flailing, I felt the marks left by his feet and fists fade, and I felt, oh, so great, so great that… I left him, whistling, sprightly, feeling so joyful, so happy. And it's the same each time. If it wasn't, who'd waste time on revenge?”

“Renfri,” said Geralt. “Whatever your motives, you're not going to leave here joyful and happy. But you'll leave here alive, early tomorrow morning, as the alderman ordered. You're not going to kill Stregobor in Blaviken.”

Renfri's eyes glistened in the candlelight, reflecting the flame; the pearls glowed in the slit of her jacket; the wolf medallion spinning round on its chain sparkled. “I pity you,” she said slowly, gazing at the medallion. “You claim a lesser evil doesn't exist. You're standing on a flagstone running with blood, alone and so very lonely because you can't choose, but you had to. And you'll never know, you'll never be sure, if you were right… And your reward will be a stoning, and a bad word. I pity you…”

“And you?” asked the witcher quietly, almost in a whisper.

“I can't choose, either.”

“What are you?”

“I am what I am.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m… cold…”

“Renfri!” Geralt squeezed the medallion tightly in his hand. She tossed her head as if waking up, and blinked several times, surprised. For a very brief moment she looked frightened.

“You've won,” she said sharply. “You win, witcher. Tomorrow morning I’ll leave Blaviken and never return to this rotten town. Never. Now pass me the wineskin.” Her usual derisive smile returned as she put her empty tumbler back on the table. “Geralt?”

“I’m here.”

“That bloody roof is steep. I’d prefer to leave at dawn than fall and hurt myself in the dark. I’m a princess and my body's delicate. I can feel a pea under a mattress—as long as it's not well-stuffed with straw, obviously. How about it?”

“Renfri”—Geralt smiled despite himself—“is that really befitting of a princess?”

“What do you know about princesses, damnit? I’ve lived as one and the joy of it is being able to do what you like. Do I have to tell you straight out what I want?”

Geralt, still smiling, didn't reply.

“I can't believe you don't find me attractive.” Renfri grimaced. “Are you afraid you'll meet the freeman's sticky fate? Eh, white-hair, I haven't got anything sharp on me. Have a look for yourself.”

She put her legs on his knees. “Pull my boots off. A high boot is the best place to hide a knife.” Barefoot, she got up, tore at the buckle of her belt. “I’m not hiding anything here, either. Or here, as you can see. Put that bloody candle out.” 

Outside, in the darkness, a cat yawled.

“Renfri?”

“What?”

“Is this cambric?”

“Of course it is, damnit. Am I a princess or not?”

EARLIER THAT NIGHT…

**“HAVE YOU EVER** heard of the Curse of the Black Sun?”

“The Mania of Mad Eltibald,” Ruselm nodded and mused as he looked across the space to Renfri. “I’ve read about it in depth, yes. Several times. I like to refer to it as Eltibald’s Eclipse because, excuse me for pointing it out, but the whole ‘Black Sun’ ordeal really isn’t everything it’s cracked out to be.”

Renfri, who the young author was beginning to see in a new light since he could see where this conversation was heading, had a sparkle in her eye. It was malicious but astute, and he didn’t like it at all. The beautiful blue of her eyes should have been enough to distract him from their intent, though he could not help but feel a sense of impending doom. 

“A rather innocuous name,” she pointed out. “Not harmful to Eltibald’s reputation and not mired with superstition and madness.”

Ruselm shrugged, taking the last bite of the meat he held in his palm. It was good. He swallowed and announced, “Jurrens are educated men. I have learned all I can about the matter, and other matters, too. It would be a mistake for me to live in ignorance. Eltibald was not entirely mad, mind you, but you girls are not cursed, either.”

“Do explain.”

“I will.” He nodded and began in a quiet voice, aware of the people around them. The innkeeper continued to mind his own business and other customers were either too busy drinking or singing to care about what was happening around them. “Eltibald studied and did his research, yes. What he interpreted about the girls did, in fact, come to pass. Of the girls that were autopsied, there were unexplained mutations found within them that could allow them to do things never seen before. That is all very true. 

“However, it seems to me that this foretelling is something that has been caused by the very people who were trying to avoid it. If these sorcerers had instead done nothing, then I would see no reason to have fear or assume you’re some kind of monster, Renfri. A large majority of the girls that escaped their towers went on to inflict pain onto others for the suffering that they had endured. An eye for an eye, as it were.”

Renfri’s blue eyes narrowed slightly, but she continued to listen on in silence. 

“Instead of calling yourself cursed, I would say that you have begun to ascend the evolutionary scale. People are born with connections to magic all the time. Why then should it be impossible for any of you girls to have the same connection—a stronger connection, in fact—just as has been happening for years now? So I circle back around to the beginning of our conversation, Renfri; no, I do not believe you are some witch or monster. You’re simply a woman who can do things, there’s nothing more to it.”

As he finished, Ruselm waited almost anxiously for Renfri to respond to him. To say anything, really. Her lack of a reaction was eerie and it brought forth feelings of ill intent. 

She waited a long moment. Her voice was sharp and commanding when she spoke, face twisted into a scowl. Something about the way she spoke gave Ruselm a glimpse into the future; one filled with blood and death and decay. “You’re full of shit. You like to pretend you know things about the world, and you’ll sit here and posture about your books but I have a reality for you, Ruselm: your precious books and your precious authors who wrote them know nothing about the curse. You know nothing about what I went through because of it, or what the others went through. And back to our earlier conversation? I change my answer. Perhaps I am a monster. I don’t know, but your opinion does nothing to change my situation.”

Renfri suddenly stood up very quickly and Ruselm flinched before he could stop himself. She noticed. 

“ _Stand up_.” Renfri demanded. 

Ruselm immediately stood up, control of his limbs lost to the power of her voice. He understood what was happening to him now, why he couldn’t control himself. It made sense that Renfri’s control had grown over him in the time that they had been talking. His answers had displeased her, though the Nazairian believed them wholeheartedly to be true.  


He tried to open his mouth to speak. 

“Shut up,” she snapped coldly, seeing his lip quiver. Ruselm’s jaw became locked in place. “And stand still.”

For the first time since the she-warg and even before, Ruselm felt completely helpless. No matter how hard he tried to move his limbs, he was stuck rooted in place just as Renfri commanded. Fear gripped his heart with its cold hands, tightening around his lifeblood and chilling his veins. Darkness clouded his vision. 

The innkeeper’s presence felt foreign now. His back was turned. Ruselm wanted to call out to him, but couldn’t. The inability to do anything left him with the only option but to watch what was happening to him without any say in the situation. He could only pray that Renfri would come to her senses soon enough. 

Renfri leaned her face close to his, her enchanting blue eyes so deceiving for what was happening. “Tomorrow morning, just before market, I’m going to the tower where the sorcerer Stregobor resides. You’re going to come with me, understand?”

He couldn’t speak.

“And when we go to Stregobor, you know what we’re going to do?”

He still couldn’t speak. 

“We’re going to force him from his tower. If it takes me holding a blade to your throat, then I will not hesitate. If it takes your intervention, you’re going to do as I say, do you understand?”

Ruselm couldn’t form words. 

Renfri’s smile was dark. “You’re allowed to answer me.”

“I understand,” he managed the words, then opened his mouth to continue but his voice was cut off. The things he wanted to say weren’t an answer to her question. Ruselm couldn’t help but fear the coming day. This wizard should be scared. 

**THE NEXT MORNING** was lively with birds singing outside and Caldemeyn in a somewhat brighter mood for breakfast as Libushe was busy in the kitchen. Marilka, the alderman’s only daughter, sat beside them at the table, already finished eating as she contented herself to playing with a small doll in her hands. 

“Daddy,” Marilka nagged monotonously, completely uninterested in the witcher’s presence as she smoothed the doll’s red hair slowly, “when are we going to the market? To the market, Daddy!”

“Quiet, Marilka,” grunted Caldemeyn, wiping his plate with his bread. He looked up to Geralt, peering across the table as though he couldn’t discern what information had just been relayed to him. “So, what were you saying, Geralt? They're _leaving_?”

“Yes.” Geralt nodded, glancing out of the corner of his eye at Marilka. Children were sometimes fascinating but they were mostly annoying. He couldn’t imagine having one of his own and was slightly grateful in that moment that the Trials had made him sterile. 

“I never thought it would end so peacefully!” Caldemeyn remarked. “They had me by the throat with that letter from Audoen. I put on a brave face but, to tell you the truth, I couldn't do a thing to them no matter how much I want to.”

The witcher found this troubling. “Even if they openly broke the law? Started a fight?”

“Even if they did.” The alderman nodded morosely. “Audoen's a very touchy king. He sends people to the scaffold on a whim. I’ve got a wife, a daughter, and I’m happy with my office. I don't have to worry where the bacon will come from tomorrow. It's good news that they're leaving. But how, and why, did it happen?”

Marilka, tired of the conversation, interrupted once more. “Daddy, I want to go to the market!”

Caldemeyn looked as if he wanted to strangle himself. With a call over his shoulder, he shouted, “Libushe! Take Marilka away!” And then turned back to the witcher once more, “Geralt, I asked Centurion, the Golden Court's innkeeper, about that Novigradian company. They're quite a gang. Some of them were recognized.”

“Yes?”

“The one with the gash across his face is Nohorn, Abergard's old adjutant from the so-called Free Angren Company—you'll have heard of them. That hulk they call Fifteen was one of theirs too and I don't think his nickname comes from fifteen good deeds. The half-elf is Civril, a brigand and professional murderer. Apparently, he had something to do with the massacre at Tridam.”

A chord of familiarity struck somewhere within Geralt.

His heart nearly stopped. “Where?”

“Tridam.” Caldemeyn shrugged. “Didn't you hear of it? Everyone was talking about it three… Yes, three years ago. The Baron of Tridam was holding some brigands in the dungeons. Their comrades—one of whom was that half-blood Civril—seized a river ferry full of pilgrims during the Feast of Nis. They demanded the baron set those others free. The baron refused, so they began murdering pilgrims, one after another. By the time the baron released his prisoners they'd thrown a dozen pilgrims overboard to drift with the current—and following the deaths the baron was in danger of exile, or even of execution. Some blamed him for waiting so long to give in, and others claimed he'd committed a great evil in releasing the men, in setting a pre—precedent or something. The gang should have been shot from the banks, together with the hostages, or attacked on the boats; he shouldn't have given an inch. At the tribunal the baron argued he'd had no choice, he'd chosen the lesser evil to save more than twenty-five people—women and children—on the ferry.”

“The Tridam ultimatum,” whispered the witcher. “Renfri—”

“What?” His friend was entirely clueless. 

“Caldemeyn,” Geralt began, “the _marketplace_.”

“What?”

“She's deceived us!” Geralt growled. “They're not leaving. They'll force Stregobor out of his tower as they forced the Baron of Tridam's hand. Or they'll force me to… They're going to start murdering people at the market; it's a real trap!”

“By all the gods—Where are you going? Sit down!”

Marilka, terrified by the shouting, huddled, keening in the corner of the kitchen.

“I told you!” Libushe shouted, pointing to the witcher. “I told you he only brings trouble!”

Caldemeyn waved her off. “Silence, woman! Geralt? Sit down!”

The witcher did not listen. “We have to stop them. Right now, before people go to the market. And call the guards. As the gang leaves the inn, seize them and hold them.”

“Be reasonable!” Caldemeyn cried. “We _can't_. We can't touch a hair of their heads if they've done nothing wrong. They'll defend themselves and there'll be bloodshed. They're professionals; they'll slaughter my people, and it'll be my head for it if word gets to Audoen. I’ll gather the guards, go to the market and keep an eye on them there—”

“That won't achieve anything, Caldemeyn! If the crowd's already in the square, you can't prevent panic and slaughter.” Geralt shook his head. “No. Renfri has to be stopped _right now_ , while the marketplace is empty.”

“It's illegal. I can't permit it. It's only a _rumor_ the half-elf was at Tridam. You could be wrong, and Audoen would flay me alive.”

“We have to take the lesser evil!”

“Geralt, I forbid it! As Alderman, I forbid it! Leave your sword! Stop!”

He did not stop.


	10. Butcher of Blaviken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much of this chapter is from Sapkowski himself, from _The Last Wish_ , which I have edited and added my own touches to. Many Witcher fans haven't read the novels so if you like the writing in this chapter, I urge you to go give them a read! In this chapter, I've mixed my style with Sapkowski's since Ruselm is the addition to this entire scene with Renfri and the bandits.

**RENFRI STOOD STIFFLY** in front of the sorcerer’s tower, a gorgeous jeweled dagger in her hands as she used the overly extravagant fish-head knocker once more. The brass ring fell heavily against the door once, twice, and for a third time. It blew steam but otherwise remained silent as she glared at it. Ruselm was told beforehand to stand just behind her and was still rooted in place until further instruction could be given. 

“I know you’re in there, Stregobor!” Renfri howled. 

The fish-head remained motionless. 

“I’ve brought a friend with me, have you seen him?” She continued. “He’s quite like you!—Assuming he knows the ways of the world, assuming he can determine what fate really means. You would get along very well, I’d wager. The both of you and your cruelty.” 

Silence ensued. 

Was this wizard even in his tower? Ruselm found himself doubting whether the man was even listening. His heart began a race in his chest the longer the fish-head remained silent. Time was ticking away. _His_ time was ticking away. 

Insects buzzed and filled the silence but everything was otherwise very still. 

Renfri wasn’t giving up. “His name is—well what does his name matter? You don’t care, do you? You’ll remain up there in your pretty little tower even if I slit his handsome throat. You’ll watch from above and toast to your own health because that’s what you are, Stregobor. You’re a coward. A fucking useless, shitty coward.”

 _Slit my throat?_ Ruselm found it suddenly hard to swallow. 

The fish-head blew more steam, its jaws moving slowly. The voice that came from it was tired and small. And, for the first time that morning, it spoke. “Now watch your language, Princess.”

“And why should I do that, wizard?” A smirk grew on Renfri’s pretty features, victory made it clear that she was becoming more vicious. She knew she was succeeding. 

“You’ve a guest with you, Princess,” the fish-head remarked. 

“A guest?” Renfri laughed, eyes flashing as she glanced back at Ruselm. His blood chilled at the sight of her. “He’s no guest. Tell me, Stregobor, how long do you plan to stay in that tower of yours?”

“As long as it takes for you to leave me in peace.”

“Like you left those girls in their towers to die in ‘peace?’ Don’t you find it ironic that you’re hiding in the very thing you entrapped others in?” Renfri was speaking quicker now, the words tumbling from her mouth just as fast as she could think them. “If you come down right now, I’ll spare my guest, as you put it. He won’t have to die. You, on the other hand, will, but I can be merciful. I can grant you a quick death but this is the only chance you get.”

Very suddenly, and foolishly, Ruselm thought, the fish-head laughed. 

There was a long pause as Renfri waited for the wizard to regain his breath to speak. The jaws of the fish moved as though he tried to contain the laughter but had miserably failed. 

“Oh, Princess,” the fish-head sounded condescending. “You can kill your guest if it pleases you. In fact, you can slaughter all of Blaviken if you so wish—I’ll never leave this tower if you wait for me at the door.” The wizard’s next words were directed at Ruselm. “I apologize, young man, but my life is far more valuable than yours. I know secrets of kings and can accomplish feats you’ve only ever dreamed of. It’s important that I live even if you must perish.”

Renfri appeared offended. “Stregobor—”

“Don’t start with me, demoness!” The fish-head continued. “I won’t let you in to kill me, and I won’t come out. Even if you prompted your guest to come inside of my tower, I would sooner smite him down where he stands rather than allow him a step closer. Not even Geralt can do your dirty work now, you fiend! Nobody comes in my tower. D’you hear me, Renfri? Nobody!”

“Oh _fuck you_ , Stregobor!” Renfri shouted at the fish-head which remained impassive. “Fuck you and your fucking towers! Fuck the whole thing! Blaviken will die because of you, you coward!”

Stregobor did not answer. 

Whirling around faster than a snake, Renfri turned to Ruselm and held the jeweled dagger to his throat. The flat of the blade was smooth and cool from the morning air, a sharp edge pressed tightly against his jugular as the princess considered taking his life. 

Ruselm watched, helpless, as the options drifted before her sea-blue eyes. As beautiful as they were, as _she_ was, it was hard to believe that such darkness lurked inside of her soul. He knew she had been dreadfully wronged but this… this was irredeemable. To slaughter an entire village for the sake of your own revenge? Innocent women and children? People who had nothing to do with Renfri’s life? 

He raised his chin almost imperceptibly, against Renfri’s previous command to not move, and narrowed his eyes. Ruselm still couldn’t speak, but his mind was filled with things to say. 

_Kill me then_ , Ruselm thought. _Go on, do it._

Renfri was thinking hard. 

_Just one flick of your wrist and my artery is damaged beyond repair._

_Just one moment, that’s all it’ll take._

_Come on. Come on, already._

_Fucking do it._

Renfri’s arm slackened.

The knife left his throat, and her eyes became gentler than they were before. Breathing was suddenly easier for Ruselm now, like an unknown weight had been lifted from his shoulders. 

_Coward._

“We’re going to find the witcher,” Renfri promised solemnly. She spoke as a woman who knew she was going to face Death. A woman who knew some of these words would be her last. In hindsight, Ruselm thought of this look in her eyes as Renfri’s unspoken apology. “And we’re going to see what choice he made.”

**SHADING HIS EYES** with his hand, Civril watched the sun emerge from behind the trees. The marketplace was coming to life. Wagons and carts rumbled past and the first vendors were already filling their stalls with all manner of wares and goods to make profit off of. A hammer was banging, a cock crowing and seagulls screeched loudly overhead. Morning life had taken over the marketplace. 

“Looks like a lovely day,” Fifteen said pensively, eyeing a fat seagull. 

Civril looked at him askance but didn't say anything. There was nothing left to say, after all. What came next was supposed to happen any time now. 

“The horses all right, Tavik?” asked Nohorn, pulling on his gloves.

“Saddled and ready. But, there's still not many of them in the marketplace.”

“There'll be more.”

“We should eat.”

“Later.”

“Dead right. We’ll have time later. And an appetite!” Tavik broke into a roarous laugh. 

“Look,” said Fifteen suddenly. The white-haired witcher was approaching from the main street, walking between stalls, coming straight toward them. His golden eyes were trained ahead, cutting through the crowd to pin Renfri’s men to the very spots they stood upon. Other villagers paid Geralt no mind as he came past, too preoccupied with their own businesses to be bothered by the witcher’s presence. 

“Renfri was right,” Civril said, eyeing Geralt cautiously. “Give me the crossbow, Nohorn.”

He hunched over and, holding the strap down with his foot, pulled the string back. He placed the bolt carefully in the groove as the witcher continued to approach. Civril raised the crossbow, aimed it directly between his eyes. Civril’s voice was strong but small, in a way. “Not one step closer, witcher!”

Geralt stopped about forty paces from the group. “Where's Renfri?” He raised his voice to carry across the space. The volume drew curious stares. 

The half-blood's pretty face contorted. “At the tower, with a friend of yours. She's making the sorcerer an offer he can't refuse. But she knew you would come. She left a message for you.”

 _A friend?_ Geralt thought. _I’ve no friends._

“Who?”

He shrugged. “I didn’t ask for his bloody name.”

“Then describe him.” Geralt’s patience was wearing thin, though he didn’t show it on his face. It was pertinent that he kept himself carefully measured in manners of business such as this. To let your enemy know what you were thinking and feeling was a dangerous thing.

“Opposite of you, I s’pose. Black hair, olive skin. Nazairian accent.” Civril’s smirk grew wide. “You’re not very much of a friend, are you?”

The description sounded strangely familiar to the man Geralt had met in Sodden. What was his name? He scoured his brain for any remembrance of the man with handsome features. The wonderfully dark hair was a dead giveaway. Was it Russell? No… it was Ruselm!

 _Crazy bastard_ , Geralt remembered. _Going warg-watching when he doesn’t carry a weapon._

“He’s not my friend.” The witcher announced. 

Civril didn’t seem surprised. “Well he was looking for you. Now do you want to hear our lady’s message or not?”

“Speak.”

“‘I am what I am. Choose. Either me, or a lesser.’ You're supposed to know what it means.”

The witcher nodded languidly, raised his hand above his right shoulder, and drew his sword, the one meant for fighting men. The blade traced a glistening arc above his head. Walking with slow movements, he made his way toward the group, eyes cold. 

Civril laughed nastily, ominously. “Renfri said this would happen, witcher, and left us something special to give you. Right between the eyes.”

The witcher kept walking, and the half-elf raised the crossbow to his cheek. It grew very quiet. The bowstring hummed, the witcher's sword flashed and the bolt flew upward with a metallic whine, spinning in the air until it clattered against the roof and rumbled into the shadow of a gutter.

“He deflected it…” groaned Fifteen nervously. “Deflected it in flight—”

“As one,” ordered Civril. Blades hissed as they were drawn from sheaths, the group pressed shoulder to shoulder, bristling with blades like a porcupine ready for the threat.

The witcher came on faster; his fluid walk became a run—not straight at the group quivering with swords, but circling it in a tightening spiral. As he circled the group, Tavik's nerve failed. He rushed the witcher, the twins following faithfully behind him. It was three versus one. In their panic, they surely believed the saying, ‘Strength in numbers.’  


“Don't disperse!” Civril roared, shaking his head and losing sight of the witcher. He swore and jumped aside, seeing the group fall apart, scattering around the market stalls. Tavik went first. He was chasing the witcher when he saw Geralt running in the opposite direction, toward him.

Tavik skidded, kicking up dust as he was trying to stop, but the witcher shot past before he could raise his sword. Tavik felt a hard blow just above his hip, fell to his knees and, when he saw his damaged hip, started screaming.

The twins simultaneously attacked the black, blurred shape rushing toward them, mistimed their attack and collided with each other as Geralt slashed Vyr across the chest and Nimir in the temple, leaving one twin to stagger, head down, into a cabbage stall, and the other to spin in place and fall limply into the gutter.

The marketplace boiled with vendors running away, stalls clattering to the ground and screams rising in the dusty air. Tavik tried to stumble to his trembling legs and fell painfully to the ground, the spitting image of a newborn foal on unsteady legs. 

“From the left, Fifteen!” Nohorn roared, running in a semi-circle to approach the witcher from behind.

Fifteen spun. But not quickly enough.

He bore a thrust through the stomach, prepared to strike and was struck again in the neck, just below his ear. He took four unsteady steps and collapsed into a meat and fish cart, which rolled away beneath him. A pretty brunette who witnessed the gore shrieked and sped off between two buildings, away from the violence. Sliding over the slippery cargo, Fifteen fell onto the flagstones, silver with scales and red with blood. 

Civril and Nohorn struck simultaneously from both sides, the elf with a high sweeping cut, Nohorn from a kneeling position, low and flat. The witcher caught both, two metallic clangs merging into one. Civril immediately leapt aside and tripped, catching himself against a stall as Nohorn warded off a blow so powerful it threw him backward to his knees.  


Leaping up, he parried too slowly, taking a gash in the face parallel to his old scar. Civril bounced off the stall, jumping over Nohorn as he fell, missed the witcher and jumped away.

The thrust was so sharp, so precise, he didn't feel it; his legs only gave way when he tried to attack again. The sword fell from his hand, the tendons severed above the elbow. Civril fell to his knees and shook his head, trying and failing to rise. His head dropped, and among the shattered stalls and market wares, the scattered fish and cabbages, his body stilled in the center of a growing red puddle.

Without warning, Renfri suddenly entered the marketplace. With the Nazairian, the witcher noticed. She approached slowly with a soft, feline step, avoiding the carts and stalls. The crowd in the streets and by the houses, which had been humming like a hornet's nest, grew silent. Ruselm was half a step in front of Renfri, who held a concealed blade at his back. 

Geralt stood motionless, his sword in his lowered hand. There was fear in Ruselm’s eyes. Some stiffness about the way he moved told the witcher that perhaps Ruselm was not in control of himself as he hoped to be. He was now dealing with an unstable princess and an innocent bystander, one who had been… looking for him? 

Renfri came to within ten paces and stopped, close enough to see that, under her jacket, she wore a short coat of chain mail, barely covering her hips. She grabbed one of Ruselm’s arms, holding him back from walking further. “You've made your choice,” she said slowly, realizing they were on different sides. “Are you sure it's the right one?”

“This won't be another Tridam,” Geralt said with an effort. He ignored Ruselm’s pleading look, those dark eyes trying their damnedest to catch his attention. He could only pay attention to Renfri right now. 

“It wouldn't have been.” Renfri explained. “Stregobor laughed in my face. He said I could kill Ruselm, butcher Blaviken and the neighboring villages and he wouldn't leave his tower. And he won't let anyone in, not even you. Why are you looking at me like that? Yes, I deceived you. I’ll deceive anyone if I have to; why should you be special?”

“Get out of here, Renfri.”

She laughed. “No, Geralt.”

Pushing Ruselm to the side, she drew her sword, quickly and nimbly. With a quick bark to the Nazairian, telling him to stand absolutely still, Renfri turned back to Geralt with a glint in her eye. 

Geralt glowered. “Renfri.”

“No. You made a choice. Now it's my turn.”

With one sharp move, she tore the skirt from her hips and spun it in the air, wrapping the material around her forearm. Geralt retreated and raised his hand, arranging his fingers in the Sign. Renfri laughed hoarsely.

“It doesn't affect me. Only the sword will.”

“Renfri,” he repeated. “ _Go_. If we cross blades, I—I won't be able—”

“I know,” she said. “But I, I can't do anything else. I just can't. We are what we are, you and I. Even he”—she jerked her head in Ruselm’s direction—“can’t help what he is. And you see that, right? You see that there are certain things we cannot change?”

Renfri didn’t wait for an answer. She moved toward him with a light, swaying step, her sword glinting in her right hand, her skirt dragging along the ground from her left. She leapt, the skirt fluttered in the air and, veiled in its tracks, the sword flashed in a short, sparing cut.

Geralt jumped away; the cloth didn't even brush him, and Renfri's blade slid over his diagonal parry. He attacked instinctively, spinning their blades, trying to knock her weapon aside. It was a mistake.

She deflected his blade and slashed, aiming for his face. He barely parried and pirouetted away on his heel, dodging her dancing blade and jumping aside again. This was the way a witcher of the School of the Wolf was taught to fight; it was routine, he knew the steps to this dance. It was only a matter of time before someone slipped up, fatally.  


Renfri fell on him, threw the skirt into his eyes and slashed flatly from short range, spinning.

Spinning with her, he avoided the blow. She knew the trick and turned with him, their bodies so close he could feel the touch of her breath as she ran the edge across his chest. He felt a twinge of pain, ignored it. There was more to worry about. 

He turned again, in the opposite direction, deflected the blade flying toward his temple, made a swift feint and attacked. Renfri sprang away as if to strike from above as Geralt lunged and swiftly slashed her exposed thigh and groin from below with the very tip of his sword.

She didn't cry out.

Falling to her side, Renfri dropped her sword and clutched her thigh. Blood poured through her fingers in a bright stream over her decorated belt, elk-leather boots, and onto the dirty flagstones. The clamor of the swaying crowd, crammed in the streets, grew as they saw blood and the clamor of war faded. 

Geralt put up his sword. He spared Ruselm a fleeting glance, aware that the man still couldn’t control his own faculties. 

“Don't go…” Renfri suddenly moaned, curling up in a ball. Her eyes began to close shut as the sweet darkness began to envelop her. Geralt didn't reply. “ _I’m… cold…_ ”

He said nothing.

She moaned again, curling up tighter as her blood flowed into the cracks between the stones. “Geralt… Hold me…”

The witcher’s eyes grew empty as he stared at Renfri. Any second now, she would pass on to the darkness and Ruselm would be free of her influence. There would be no reason to fear her any longer. 

Gracefully, she turned her head, resting her cheek on the flagstones and was very still. A fine dagger, hidden beneath her body until now, slipped from her numb fingers and clattered noisily against the flagstones. Off to his left, Ruselm couldn’t contain the gasp that surged through him; he was free. 

“You…” Ruselm had trouble forming words. He spoke slowly, voice thick. “You killed her.”

Geralt said nothing. 

“Geralt, it’s not right for me to say this but thank you.” He ran a shaky hand through his black hair, eyes flickering from side to side as if to catch up on every detail he had been unable to witness during his time under Renfri’s power. “I was not capable of doing anything.”

After a long moment, the witcher raised his head, hearing Stregobor's staff tapping against the flagstones. The wizard was approaching quickly, avoiding the corpses. He turned his golden eyes to Ruselm and offered a stiff nod. Geralt knew what it was like to be powerless, once upon a time. He wouldn’t wish it on anyone. 

“What slaughter,” Stregobor panted as he came within distance. “I saw it, Geralt. I saw it all in my crystal ball…” He came closer, bent over. In his trailing black robe, supported by his staff, he looked old. “It's incredible.” He shook his head. “Shrike's dead.”

Geralt didn't reply.

Ruselm whirled on Stregobor, fury behind his eyes. His hands did not shake as he thrust a finger in the wizard’s face, white teeth flashing every time he opened his mouth. “You!” The Nazairian spat. Geralt looked between them, only moving his eyes. “You were all too happy to allow Death to take me! I wasn’t allowed to speak, Wizard, but I have plenty to say to you and you will sit here and hear it! Firstly—”

The witcher put a hand on Ruselm’s shoulder, stopping him. “Easy.”

“Geralt!” Ruselm shoved his hand away as his brow furrowed. He lowered his voice to speak in a tone only he could hear. “You should’ve heard the awful things he was saying! He’s terrible, Geralt—”

“I know.”

“Then let me—!”

“No.”

Ruselm fell silent, fuming to himself as he watched Geralt turn to Stregobor with coldness in his eyes. This, Ruselm decided, was something he could watch. 

“Well, Geralt.” The wizard straightened himself. He cast a wary glance at Ruselm but offered no comment on their previous situation. “Fetch a cart and we'll take her to the tower for an autopsy.”

He looked at the witcher and, not getting any answer, leaned farther over the body. She had to be getting colder now with all of her blood spilled on the street below her and nothing to warm her body any longer. Ruselm crossed his arms over his chest and glanced down at Renfri, anger leaving his features. Geralt wondered what he was thinking before Stregobor made a move to turn and call the villagers for a cart. 

Someone the witcher didn't know found the hilt of his sword and drew it. “Touch a single hair of her head,” said the person the witcher didn't know, “touch her head and yours will go flying to the flagstones.”

He was eerily calm. His confidence in those words made the wizard startle. 

“Have you gone mad? You're wounded, in shock! An autopsy's the only way we can confirm—”

“ _Don't_ touch her.”

Stregobor, seeing the raised blade, jumped aside and waved his staff. “All right!” he shouted. “As you wish! But you'll never know! You'll never be sure! Never, do you hear, witcher?”

“Begone.”

“Yeah,” Ruselm’s sharp gaze cut deeply into Stregobor. “Get out of here, you coward.”

“As you both wish.” The wizard turned away, his staff hitting the flagstones. “I’m returning to Kovir. I’m not staying in this hellhole another day. Come with me rather than rot here, eh witcher? These people don't know anything, they've only seen you killing. And you kill nastily, Geralt. Well, are you coming?”

Geralt didn't reply; he wasn't looking at him. He put his sword away.

“That means _no_.” Ruselm waved the wizard off. 

Stregobor shrugged and walked away, his staff tapping rhythmically against the ground.

A stone suddenly came flying from the crowd and clattered against the flagstones. A second followed, whizzing past just above Geralt's shoulder, nearly hitting the Nazairian in the process. The witcher, holding himself straight, raised both hands and made a swift gesture with them. The crowd heaved; the stones came flying more thickly but the Sign, protecting them behind an invisible oval shield, pushed them aside.

Ruselm’s jaw slackened as he stared at the stoning, appalled it was happening. _Clearly_ , he thought, _they misunderstand the situation! What are they doing?_

“Enough!” yelled Caldemeyn as he shoved his way through to the front of the gathering. “Bloody hell, enough of that! We’re not animals, you hear?”

The crowd roared like a surge of breakers but the stones, as requested, stopped flying. The witcher stood, motionless, the author by his side. The alderman approached them, sparing Ruselm a brief glance and friendly nod. He turned to Geralt, features grim. 

“Is this,” he began, with a broad gesture indicating the motionless bodies strewn across the square, “how your lesser evil looks? Is this what you believed necessary?”

“Yes,” replied Geralt slowly, with an effort.

“Is your wound serious?”

“No.”

“In that case, get out of here.”

“Yes,” said the witcher. He stood a moment longer, avoiding the alderman's eyes. Then he turned away slowly, very slowly.

Ruselm, mouth open now, flustered for a moment. “Alderman,” he started, “this isn’t Geralt’s fault. He stopped Renfri from—”

Caldemeyn closed his eyes and sighed heavily. This action made Ruselm’s jaw tighten again. He knew, without asking, that the witcher’s deed would do nothing to make the people of Blaviken happy. There were dead men, and a dead princess they’d have to deal with. Not to mention the consequences once King Audoen… _shit_. 

Silently, Ruselm turned to follow Geralt. There was nothing he could say to fix this. They were walking away just when the alderman called out again, voice grave. He sounded regretful. 

“Geralt.”

The witcher looked round.

“Don't come back,” said Caldemeyn. “ _Never_ come back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost nearing the part where I'll be publishing new work that hasn't even been on Wattpad yet (everything after chapter eleven!) and I'm really stoked to get that out to you guys. Feel free to be leaving comments and interacting with me on here, I'm totally open to any and all communication!


	11. Roach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: We're entirely back to my own work now! If we ever divulge or intertwine with Sapkowski again, I'll put a disclaimer at the beginning of the chapter again.
> 
> Everything after this point will be entirely new content never seen before on Wattpad or any other platform, enjoy!

**THE WITCHER WAS** astride his horse, contentedly leaning back in the saddle as Ruselm walked beside them, nose buried deep in a journal he hadn't stopped writing in since they'd left Blaviken behind as a mere speck on the horizon. The Nazairian hadn't spoken a word since their departure and Geralt hadn't prompted him to speak, though he was curious as to why the man had come looking for him in the first place. There were only two kinds of people who sought out witchers: those in need of a very specific skill set and those looking to maim, or kill. 

Ruselm didn't look like the type to harm others, though. 

Geralt settled on the idea that he must be, in his vast experience, one who falls into the first category. In need. That only left the question of which monster Geralt would be directed to next. 

Despite this tidbit of knowledge he had worked out for himself, he wasn't very fond of people trying to track him down. Although, Geralt had lived long and seen many circumstances that could constitute such measures. With no small measure of reluctance, the witcher opened his mouth and said, "Ruselm." 

Summoned by his name, Ruselm hummed quietly to show he was listening, white quill scratching eagerly across the page. Geralt wondered what he was writing. 

"Why did you go to Blaviken?" 

"I wanted to find you," Ruselm didn't even raise his eyes from the page. He stepped nimbly over a small rock. "Why did you go to Blaviken?" 

Geralt didn't answer. "What did you want to find me for?" 

Ruselm glanced up. 

_Finally._

There was a small measure of annoyance in his brown eyes. "To tell you about Thetdow," he bit off the answer quickly, looking back down to the words in his book. Geralt could smell the ink from his position on Roach. It was strong but soothing; the first scent he had noticed on Ruselm back in Sodden. "And to inform you that despite what those people say, they brought their monster upon themselves. It would be a waste of your time, witcher." 

"Hmm." 

It became silent once more. 

Geralt had, in truth, some idea of what Ruselm was suggesting about Thetdow. He'd heard of villages which damned themselves because they acted so cruelly and evilly, with corruption, that their punishment was inevitable even with the help of a monster slayer. He'd even been the fool to waste his time at one or two of those villages in his earlier years where he found himself immersed in every person's problems and schemes—the corruption and greed of small towns was surprisingly overwhelming, how could any sane person live in that environment? 

The witcher much preferred isolation. 

Ruselm cleared his throat quietly. "You never answered," he pointed out. 

"Answered what?" 

"Why did you go to Blaviken?" He closed the journal, keeping one finger between the pages to hold his place in the book. Ruselm's eyes were focused directly on Geralt now, unwavering. He abruptly stopped walking. 

Geralt pulled Roach to a halt about two paces ahead, half-turning in his saddle to look down at Ruselm. "It was along the way," he answered gruffly. "I put a kikimora to the sword, figured I would get paid for my trouble. I was wrong." 

The Nazairian's eyes lit up at the mention of the kikimora. He stepped closer to Roach, head cocked to the side with wonder. Everything about his body's rigid stance and facial features screamed curiosity from the way his eyes widened to the tension coiling inside of his body, unspent. He held his arms close to his core, shoulders back and chin high. 

From atop his horse, Geralt could even hear the way Ruselm's heart began to beat a little faster. 

"Tell me about the kikimora!" Ruselm made an extempore gesture with one hand, waving it to the side. "Spare me no details, please, Geralt." 

The witcher's catlike eyes narrowed. 

He remembered Ruselm telling him he was writing a bestiary, although he had no idea the obsession went this far. He shouldn't be surprised, anyways, with how the author had rushed headfirst into danger just to see the warg of Sodden. Still, though, he'd had _some_ amount of hope that the near-death experience would snap Ruselm out of this otherworldly fascination that wholly captured his attention. It would be quite a shame to see someone so innocent and carefree laid to permanent rest over a mad obsession with very dangerous creatures. 

Especially when that someone was as defenseless as Ruselm. He might be a fully grown man, Geralt soundly decided as he admired the Nazairian's build, but he was softer than the petal of a flower or the fragile wing of a moth. 

Geralt, however, would indulge him. Once. 

"Fine. Tell me first what you already know." 

Ruselm's eyes became suddenly brighter, alight with the flame of knowledge sparked by his excitement. He spoke rapidly to get his piece in, staring up at Geralt. "A kikimora is pretty nasty to look at, sort of like an insect, some would say. Sort of like a spider, others attest. Could be both. They steal children and other small prey to feed themselves, but they don't hunt maliciously. What have I missed?" 

"Vulnerable to silver." 

"Yes! And?" 

"They're like termites, usually living in some sort of colony and always under a queen. That's why they're compared to insects, especially ants." 

"So the one you killed near Blaviken...?" Ruselm tilted his head, trying to understand. "There's more near it? A queen, even?" 

Geralt blinked. "Possibly." 

"Shall we investigate?" Ruselm suggested the idea far too brightly, as though he went monster hunting every day. His exuberance would be the end of Geralt. 

The witcher turned forward in his saddle once more, nudging Roach's flanks with his heels. She continued on, thick tail swishing over her sides to brush off the flies. "No." He answered bluntly, unwilling to say more on the subject. There was no reason to encourage him, after all. 

Ruselm paused for a moment, brow furrowing at Geralt's actions. The Wolf briefly wondered what Ruselm was thinking about as he found himself unable to look back and assess his annoyingly abstruse visage, the features of which shifted within moments of each other and formed entirely new emotions every second he talked. 

Without a further word, the olive-skinned man followed after Roach and her master, keeping one eye on the path ahead and the other trained steadily on Geralt's back. It was silent for a moment. Only a moment, nothing more. 

"Why not?" 

_He's persistent_ , Geralt noticed. 

"Because." 

"Because?" 

"You've no business to; you're not a witcher; you'll get both yourself and I killed if you follow through with such an inane desire." Geralt sneered. "Shall I continue on with the list or is it satisfactory enough for you?" 

The Nazairian's speech came to a doleful conclusion and Geralt kept his eyes focused forward, on the muddy road ahead. Roach plodded on steadily, one ear flicking back in the direction of Ruselm before turning forward again as she took in their surroundings. The pair fell under a weighty silence, neither willing to break the warfront because the damage had already been done. 

Geralt wasn't bothered. Ruselm, on the other hand... 

He knew he was being nasty, though the witcher felt no remorse for it. Who was Ruselm to put himself in senseless danger? To ask Geralt to risk his life over a stupid curiosity which didn't matter in the end? The question wasn't one which kept the witcher awake at night wondering whether there were more of the kikimora's kind in hiding. And it wouldn't be a question he asked himself unless they began killing more innocent children. 

Beyond that, they were free to exist as they wished. 

Geralt also wasn't fond of the idea of being responsible for someone else's life when he didn't have to be. Saving Ruselm's life once should have been enough. Did he have a death wish? 

The matter was entirely different when he was working, but in his free time (of which Geralt was getting plenty of nowadays, with his jobs being spread few and far between) the witcher actively chose not to be tied down to that responsibility; or any liability as far as he was concerned. As charming as Ruselm was, the trouble wasn't worth the potential peril. 

What if Ruselm was severely injured? 

What if Geralt went down in battle? Who would have his back then when it was clear Ruselm was no kind of fighter? The man ran at the first sign of trouble. He— 

"It is... satisfactory enough." Ruselm's lowered voice drew the witcher from his thoughts, making him want to lean closer to listen. He sounded upset. 

Geralt chose not to respond. 

Instead, he asked a question to draw them away from the previous conversation. It was clear that it was a touchy subject. "Where are you going now that Blaviken holds no more mystery?" 

Ruselm's voice was stiff now, losing its previous gentle quality. His tone was rougher. "It was never Blaviken that held mystery for me," his words immediately drew the attention of Roach, who flicks one ear back at the sound. "Like I mentioned before, I only wanted to find you. 'Mighty witcher,' they said. 'Gone off to Blaviken.' I merely followed the whispers." 

The witcher didn't like his tone. "All for the sake of telling me about a town I have no care for?" 

"All for the sake of telling you, yes." Ruselm's frustration was easily read in his voice. Geralt didn't have to look to know there was a fire behind his dark eyes, he could hear it in the way Ruselm spoke and feel it drifting in the air between them. "And also for the satisfaction of knowing Thetdow will pay for their sins. Even Melitele herself would offer them no forgiveness after the way they slaughtered the Old Bear, Geralt. I simply wanted to ensure their fate. Hence, I looked for you: their one lifeline." 

There was something behind those words. Geralt didn't turn around, though he was nearly convinced to. 

"What did they do?" 

"They're guilty of more than just what I witnessed, though they almost killed me if that tells you anything. It's a bit of a story, Geralt. I'm not sure you even want to hear it considering it's all just a big part of my 'inane desires,' right?" 

_There it is._

He'd known the comment was coming. It was deserved, but his feelings remained unharmed. Geralt picked a leaf from Roach's mane. "I'm willing to listen." 

The lack of a reaction must have frustrated Ruselm even further, for his voice was sour as he indulged Geralt. "There was a bear," he began, sighed, and the anger left his voice before he started over again. "There was a bear... who was in the wrong place, at the wrong time." 

"Hmm." 

"These people were inducing fear to go through the entire village, they were saying things to fill their simple minds with false validations for senseless slaughter, slaughter which only furthered their agenda and drew away from the fact that they were only making their overall ordeal with the hellhound even worse." Ruselm's tone was bitter, but this time it wasn't directed at Geralt. "They wanted to kill him, Geralt. For no reason. I asked what crime the bear had committed and they could not answer. 

"They tried to make it sound like a preventive measure, but it was murder. I went to the bear, I arrived at the cave before them—" 

"Of course you did," Geralt interrupted. "You don't know what danger is, do you?" 

Ruselm scoffed rudely. "And you don't know what good manners are, do you?" 

The witcher remained silent. 

He had to bite back a sharp reply, reminding himself that it was _technically_ rude to interrupt others when they were talking. 

"Yeah, that's exactly what I thought. As I was saying, I got to the bear before they did. I thought he was going to hurt me, I won't lie to you about that, witcher. Even so, I tried to scare the bear off but he wouldn't leave. He just..."—Ruselm choked up a little—"he wouldn't go." 

Geralt really wanted to look over his shoulder now. He kept his eyes fixed ahead. 

"And it's all I've been thinking about, Geralt," Geralt was suddenly very fond of the way his name came from Ruselm's lips, of the way his accent caressed every sound carefully and gently. Even with the Nazairian being unhappy with the white-haired witcher, he still said his name as though it were a precious belonging. "The way the bear pushed me down, and took the arrow which would have killed me straight to his heart. I just... Why would an animal do that?" 

It took him a moment to realize Ruselm was asking a question. 

Geralt finally looked just over his shoulder at the man walking beside his horse. Ruselm's head was down, chin tucked slightly in towards his chest, fingers playing with the edges of the rough paper in his journal. Entirely different from a few minutes ago. There was a stiffness in his legs now, a tense quality to the upper muscles of his shoulders. He looked quite helpless, but even his weakness was pleasing to admire. 

"Perhaps it wasn't a mere animal." 

Ruselm's gaze shot up faster than an arrow, fixing Geralt with a dark look. Now was not a time to play. "What do you mean?" 

The witcher wasn't even completely sure what he meant, or what had brought him to say such a thing. The situation reminded him of one he had encountered years before. "There have been cursed men to exist in the past... and werebears... and, then again, animals of supreme intelligence. Maybe your Old Bear wasn't just a bear." 

"That..." the Nazairian shook his head with uncertainty. "Are you sure? Geralt, that would change everything." 

"Well, he's dead now," Geralt's reply falls curtly as he forces his eyes forward in an attempt to avoid Ruselm's beseeching expression. He couldn't bear to look at Ruselm's pleading face. "It changes nothing in the end whether he was or wasn't simply an animal. They'll pay for his death all the same. I'm not going to Thetdow." 

"It matters—" 

He stopped, suddenly sighing. 

Geralt waited for Ruselm to continue, but the young man remained entirely silent. This quietness, unlike before, was resigned and weary. 

"Geralt," Ruselm began. "Do you think there's eternal retribution? For people like that?" 

An odd question. One, the witcher thought, that revealed Ruselm entirely. What an innocent thought, the whisper of desperation. He remained noiseless for more than a few minutes, allowing Roach's soft little whinnies or nickers of interest to fill the space between them. 

She caught sight of a white rabbit darting across the road ahead of them, nearly stopping on her toes as she watched the fluffy creature dash off into the grasses. Her ears pricked forward, head smartly raised, sides shivering with each breath. Roach liked rabbits. Geralt lay a hand on her neck, just in front of the saddle, before gathering the words to speak. 

"I'm not sure." 

"As in, you're not sure if punishment exists, or the whole thing?" 

Geralt's lips twitched into a frown. "The whole thing." 

Ruselm nodded a little, as if he were in agreeance. "I've always been on the fence. I like to think there's something, but it's not as if the answer is out there somewhere in the world. I guess it's something we just have to experience when we get there, then." 

"At the rate you're going, that'll be sooner rather than later." 

"You can't have reward without the necessary risk," Ruselm said breathily. His voice hitched a moment, he was unsure if he wanted to be talking about this. "That's what my mother used to say to me." 

Geralt looked over to Ruselm. "Used to?" 

"She died." 

The witcher could see a quiver in Ruselm's lips as he spoke, the way his hands began to shake as he flipped open the journal in an attempt to distract himself. That's what it was—Geralt could tell by the way his eyes glossed over and remained unmoving on the page in front of his nose. It was a feat that the man didn't trip over his own feet during this vulnerable moment. 

He wasn't sure what to say. Did he ask how? Was he supposed to be quiet, or offer his condolences? Geralt didn't know how to talk to other people when it didn't pertain to witcher's work. 

After a short mental deliberation, Geralt chose to remain quiet. 

Ruselm picked up the slack, soberly clearing his throat. "That was a long time ago, though. That's actually why I'm out here, Geralt." 

"What was her name?" He couldn't help the curiosity as he tried to seek out Ruselm's eyes, only to be met with the side of his face. 

"Halla." 

"I... I'm assuming she was taken by monsters." 

The Nazairian took a deep, shuddering breath. He nodded once. Then twice, as if to reassure his own answer. "It was a fiend. In Nazair. We weren't very far from the blue rose bushes when it happened, I remember smelling their sweetness in the air and dragging her closer." Ruselm spoke with a softness that made the witcher lean over Roach's side to better hear him. He could tell this is where the heartbreak was going to happen. 

"I wanted to pick a rose for her, Geralt." 

"Did you?" 

Ruselm was trying to play tough, Geralt could see it in the way he tensed and took a moment to correct himself. "I did. I don't know what provoked him, Geralt, I swear. She screamed. I heard it growling. Before I knew what was happening, my mother was dead and the fiend was gone." 

The witcher righted himself in the saddle. "It didn't kill you," he remarked. "That's not very common." 

"I don't know why," Ruselm admitted as he eased the journal shut again. He looked up at his witcher, sadness weighing him down. He walked slower now. "Things have always happened around me, and I make it out all the wiser. It's... it's scary, sometimes." 

"What about the fiend?" Geralt found himself asking before he could stop himself. He had to know. "Does it still live?" 

"No," the Nazairian shook his head. "A witcher came by nearly a year later, Morains was his name. Morains of Ravelin. He had a cat's head medallion, I remember because it was so unique. I'd never seen another like it until I saw your wolf's head. Have you ever met him?" 

Geralt searched far within the reaches of his memories. The name sounded familiar enough, though the witcher wasn't certain he had met this Morains in person. Perhaps he had been mentioned by Vesemir before, in passing. 

And a witcher from the School of the Cat? He'd gladly had no association with any such rogues and hired assassins. Geralt did have a sense of honor. 

"No." He answered simply. 

Better to leave politics and history out of it. It was far too long and complicated to explain in one conversation. Although, perhaps Ruselm would be interested in a history lesson from the point of view of a witcher. 

Ruselm hummed in response. "I figured." 

"I don't often run into other witchers, we stay far apart for a reason." 

"Nevertheless," he shrugged. "Morains is out there somewhere, and he killed the fiend. My father paid him very handsomely, even offered him a place with the Jurrens if he ever needed to stay somewhere. I've never seen him since." 

_Curious._

"You said," Geralt was thinking again. "Things have always happened around you? What kind of things?" 

Ruselm hesitated. "Just... things. Odd things." 

"Such as?" 

"With animals," he sounds unsure of himself, voice wavering. "Like the Old Bear. I talked to him, and he listened. He must've been listening, Geralt, because I don't know what else he would be doing. There was this, this intelligence in his eyes. He knew what I was saying, but he didn't heed my words." 

Geralt frowned. "That could be a number of different things." 

Ruselm nodded, lips pursed. "That's what I've been telling myself." 

"You could test it right now if you're unsure," Geralt pulled back on Roach's reins, leaning slightly in the saddle. The mare pulled up to a stop, ears flicking back to Geralt and Ruselm. She was listening. "Talk to Roach." 

The Nazairian stopped walking. "You want me to... talk to your horse?" 

Geralt shrugged and ran a hand through Roach's mane, admiring her waves with an appreciative eye. "Why not? Put an end to your questioning, at the very least. I do it all the time." 

Ruselm struggled to hold back a laugh. "You talk to her?" 

"Roach is very attentive." 

"Unlike people, I assume." 

"Half the time, she's smarter than I am. So, yes. Unlike people." 

The olive-skinned man tried to contain his smile as he approached Roach's head, extending a gentle palm to her neck. He handed the journal off to Geralt, who paid it no mind as he held it between his hands. The leather was worn but tough, ink wafting up from the pages he dared not look at. Roach turned and greeted Ruselm with a muffled sound of interest, shoving her nose toward the Nazairian's neck. 

Ruselm smiled brightly, instantly brightening after the darkness they left behind them. He looked genuinely happy, the same way Geralt felt when he talked to Roach sometimes. He watched wordlessly as Ruselm whispered to his horse, able to hear every word as clear as day with his witcher's senses. 

"You're quite the beauty, aren't you, Miss?" 

Roach puffed a breath of warm air onto Ruselm's neck. 

"I bet you get all the compliments," Ruselm went on, reaching his other hand up to straighten the mare's messy forelock so it was out of her eyes. She raised her head, rubbing Ruselm's hand on a spot just behind her left ear where it itched. "What do I say to her, Geralt? I'm not sure how to test this." 

"I'm not either," Geralt shrugged slightly but folded his hands together in his lap. The sight of Roach being so kind to this near stranger warmed his heart. "Tell her to do something," he suggested. "Something specific." 

Ruselm's brow furrowed. He was quiet for a moment, then spoke in a voice that was nearly inaudible even to the witcher's ears. "Chomp at the bit, Miss Roach. Just a few times, would you?" 

For a moment, Roach did nothing. 

She turned her head to stare with one large, dignified brown eye at Ruselm. With a small snort, Roach looked back as far as she could to Geralt in the next moment as though she were asking for permission to chomp at her bit. 

The hesitation itself piqued a curiosity within Geralt. Had Roach listened? 

"Go on," the witcher urged his mare. "You listen to him, now." 

She nickered but said nothing more. 

Roach lowered her head and shook her mane out, scattering the smoothed hair of her forelock all over again. Ruselm turned to Geralt when it looked like nothing would happen for them today. He shrugged casually, about to open his mouth to say something when the mare, as if to not draw attention to herself, quietly began to play with the bit in her mouth. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I accidentally bolded this ENTIRE chapter and spent the next fifteen minutes going line by line making it not bolded anymore and it was really boring. I could've uploaded it within FIVE and had to spend so much time getting the rest of it fixed that I'm just done lol.


	12. What it Means to Not Know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New update! 
> 
> Sorry for the wait, this chapter has been published on Wattpad for a couple of weeks now but I never made the time to go ahead and upload it here too. Since college has started and I'm still working almost every day, I haven't really had a lot of time to write. I haven't even had time to myself lately so I hope you enjoy this! 
> 
> Update about the National Guard: I go to MEPS on September 25th! (: 
> 
> Anyone got ship name suggestions for Ruselm and Geralt? Cause I sure don't! Drop them if you think of one please. <3 Alright, love you guys, please enjoy!

**“WHAT IN LILIT’S** name—” Ruselm whipped back around to Roach who was chomping at her bit eagerly now, the metal clashing against her teeth with every bite. The Nazairian looked more than surprised at the horse’s obedience to his command, jaw slack. He glances back at Geralt with a dumbfounded expression manipulating his features. “I don’t understand…? How is this _possible_?” 

And even the witcher was perplexed. 

How was it that Ruselm Jurren, a simple and completely non-magical, ordinary man from Nazair, was able to communicate with Roach? Was there something in his voice she liked hearing? Was it dumb luck or just an instance of mere happenstance? Geralt was tempted to think the latter, but he didn’t tend to believe in coincidences. 

There was an explanation for this. 

There had to be. There must be something Ruselm was doing, whether he realized it or not. Roach was responding to him in ways she had never exhibited with Geralt. 

“I—I don’t know.” 

“You don’t know,” Ruselm repeated blankly. 

Geralt didn’t respond. 

“How can you not know?” he questioned, voice raised now. It was clear he was beginning to panic. “I mean… have you seen this happen before? Is there something wrong with me? I-I swear I’ve never done anything as outlandish as this before, Geralt! I—”

“Take a deep breath,” Geralt instructed, much in the same manner he had when they first encountered each other in Sodden. That moment felt like years ago by this point, and Geralt still didn’t know Ruselm any better than he had then. It was maddening, to not instinctively know things about people around him and to be left guessing. This puzzle only made it all the worse. 

Ruselm paused but obeyed with wide eyes and a quivering lip. 

The witcher listened closely as his racing heartbeat began to plateau with every good, deep breath he took. It seemed to help, in a minuscule way, that Roach had finally stopped chomping at her bit. Instead, she was taking interest in their environment rather than the situation, although Ruselm could do nothing but stare at the mare like she was an oddity never discovered before. His eyes were transfixed, glued to the source of his disbelief and Geralt very badly wanted to know what he was thinking. 

“Ruselm,” Geralt began. 

He wasn’t listening. 

“Ruselm.”

The man looked up to him, reluctantly. 

_Eye contact, finally._ Geralt hated when a man’s eyes wouldn’t, or couldn’t, meet his. There was nothing more frustrating than talking to someone who constantly lowered themselves in comparison to you. Naturally, many people did this around Geralt because they found him intimidating but that wasn’t to say he ever grew comfortable with it. He merely tolerated this. 

But Ruselm had no problem meeting his eyes when he wanted to. 

“There’s nothing wrong with you.”

“How do you know that?” Ruselm challenged. 

“You’re not as fucked up as I am,” the white-haired man said with all seriousness. He wasn’t surprised to find that he actually meant the words when he said them. From what little he knew of the man, it was certainly a safe bet to wager. “It’s perfectly normal to be different from other people, that doesn’t mean anything is wrong with you. Understand me? This has an explanation, if we care to find it.” 

Ruselm appeared unsure about the witcher’s words, the edges of his eyes crinkling with skepticism and the corner of his mouth tipping in the slightest downwards direction. Geralt could see him processing, working things through in his mind. He was thinking really hard over something the witcher didn’t even view as a problem. Perhaps Geralt had simply grown used to surprises like this, but for someone who had never dealt with the unknown… 

It was a mystery, if anything. Not a curse. 

Quite literally, it was _not_ a curse. Not one the witcher had ever encountered before, anyway. Most curses ended with men turning into beasts or girls being in mysteriously unwakeable comas, not men having the ability to communicate with beasts in the way Ruselm just had. This was unheard of in every sense. 

There were, of course, tales across the lands of young girls and fair maidens (sometimes princesses, yes, but not always) often being said to commune with the animals around them, although Geralt had never heard of this unique ability being in the hands of a man. Maybe their children inherited it at times, but never the boys. _Never_ the boys. Perhaps with good reason, too. In this world? 

Yes, this world. Where men were so cruel; where they not allowed women to speak their minds or killed the innocent for the merest mention of pocketing a few coin for the job. The notion that Ruselm, who clearly did not fall into this category, could be significantly different because of his newfound ability and possibly his parentage wasn’t very far off. It just left the question of how. 

“Maybe nothing’s wrong,” Ruselm finally relented, promptly drawing the witcher from his ruminations. Geralt was inclined to smile before the dolt opened his mouth again and this inclination vanished faster than a hare dashing into the brush. “But something is _different_ about me,” he murmurs. “And I need to know what. Why am I able to do these things? Why me? Why now? This… this just proves I’ve been stuck this entire time!” 

The witcher frowns instead. “Stuck?”

“Forced to be someone I’m not.”

“I don’t think that describes your situation at all—”

“Doesn’t it, though?” the Nazairian lets out a breath of air between his cheeks, eyes drifting away from Geralt’s to the ground again. “When I began this journey, when I first left Nazair… everything was so hard, Geralt. Adjusting. Living. Surviving. I adapted, of course—how could I not?—but seeing the senseless violence, the misdirected cruelty… I’ve been different. Changed.”

Geralt remained silent. 

Ruselm had placed his hands low on his hips now as he paced back and forth beside Roach. His nervous energy was feeding into the horse’s and Roach quickly grew concerned, shifting her weight from side to side as if she were ready to take off for the nearest hills. It doesn’t take but a moment for Geralt to arrange his fingers in the Sign of Axii above Roach’s head. The last thing he needed was to lose control of his horse. 

The mare instantly calms, although Ruselm has continued talking even without the witcher’s rapt attention. 

“... it’s like there’s this vice gripping my heart, Geralt, and squeezing it so tightly at times that all the blood stops pumping through me. I think about it often now. The darkness of its nature. I never worried about this when I was in Nazair; I never had to, but now it’s sometimes all I can think of when I’m alone, like it has been festering inside of me all these years. It happens when I think about the creatures that have been unjustly hurt—Obil, the Old Bear, even the she-warg.”

“She would’ve killed you.” Geralt is surprised by how sharp his voice cuts through the air. It instantly grabs Ruselm’s attention, making the man stop his pacing and turn his eyes up to the witcher’s once more. There is sadness within them. “That warg.” He continues. “She would’ve eaten you piece by piece, and thought nothing of it. _I_ saved you from that fate.” 

“Yes,” Ruselm nods. The faraway look in his eyes fades. His eyes flicker away from Geralt down to Roach, who has extended her head to him once more. Almost guiltily, he strokes her nose as his thoughts are inevitably turned back to his mother’s own fate. “You saved me.” 

With nothing more to say, Geralt watches his horse enjoy Ruselm’s attention as the atmosphere fades into an easy, although troubled, silence. A bird trills in the distance, resembling the sound of a finch in Geralt’s mind. Its mate responds in the next instant. He can hear their wings flutter even from a distance, much in thanks to how the Trials had altered his body. 

Oftentimes, Geralt would enjoy simply listening to his surroundings. The birds, the trees, the water. Heartbeats. Snatches of conversations he’d never participate in. Men haggling with each other. Animals and beasts living and breathing and carousing about in the shadows. But the only thing besides the finch that he could focus on was Ruselm. 

His heartbeat was wild. It was so loud it was hard for Geralt _not_ to listen to him. 

He felt a small twinge in his chest as he realized Ruselm was upset, and struggled to find something to say to offer solace. Anything would have helped the situation. Any word or comfort he could have bestowed would’ve been better than the silence he gave the absolutely foolish author. Admittedly, he just couldn’t find the right thing to say at that moment. 

A witcher, caught unable to speak. This wasn’t the first time he’d found himself too distanced to do a damn thing about what bothered him and it wouldn’t be the last. 

Roach presses her nose further into Ruselm’s palm, pulling at the reins to get closer to her new friend. Geralt releases some pressure by placing his hands in front of the saddle along her neck, allowing the mare better access to Ruselm. Geralt supposed it had to be life-changing to suddenly come to realize that you could communicate with animals and Ruselm was no doubt struggling with this and other feelings this had stirred within him. 

The one about darkness was particularly troubling. 

Geralt opens his mouth to speak, slowly. He wasn’t sure if his next words, coming as a complete surprise to him, would be of any help at all. “I know some people I can ask about this.” 

Ruselm doesn’t even look up from Roach, but spares the witcher a nod. 

“They might have some answers. Or, at the very least, they can tell me if they’ve ever seen something like this in a man before.” 

“Okay.” 

Uncomfortable with how stiff the conversation was revealing itself to be, Geralt shifts in his saddle as he realizes what place he now has to take the conversation before Ruselm becomes entirely unreachable. There was too much light within him for Geralt to standby and allow it to flicker and dim. “It’s normal, Ruselm,” he tries in a low voice. “To feel hardened in this part of the world. There are bad people, as you may have noticed, and bad things that happen without provocation.” 

Silence. 

For once, the man filled with words was left with nothing but silence. The very man who’d chased paragraphs deep into the woods and was constantly running new sentences of his bestiary through his mind was completely and utterly silent. 

Had he said the wrong thing? 

“Ruselm?” 

“Yes, Geralt?” 

“Your lack of a response troubles me.” 

“Oh. In what way?” 

Geralt grimaces. “When a man who has done nothing but jabber and prattle since I’ve known him becomes bestilled with quietude, I often wonder what he could possibly be thinking to have no response.” 

Ruselm cracks a small grin, a flicker of his joyous nature providing Geralt a shining example of how he should be at all times. “You think of our conversations as mere prattle?” he tuts as though disappointed in Geralt’s observations. “Oh, dear witcher, you’ve wounded me.” 

“Hmm.” Geralt looks away into the distance. “Cute. You ignored my words.” 

“I did not,” Ruselm argues. “I chose not to address them. Despite your fears, Geralt, I am nowhere near the darkness like you think. I can simply feel it within me; there is a difference. And I don’t know what to say or do about it, so there’s that, too.” 

Now it was Geralt’s turn to absorb the other’s words. 

With a sigh, the witcher takes up Roach’s reins once more and nudges her flanks until the mare begins walking again. Ruselm keeps pace beside them, casting curious little glances at Geralt every so often, although he allows the silence between them without interruption. 

_I am nowhere near the darkness like you think. I can simply feel it within me._

Geralt looks down at Ruselm from the corner of his eye, watching as he walks along, head buried in his journal once more. The tip of the quill scratches aggressively against the page, held by a graceful hand skilled in its use. 

_Scratccchscratccchscratccch._ Geralt narrows his eyes and takes more interest in the page. What was he writing? _Scratccchscratccchscratccch. Scratccch._ With his superior eyesight, the witcher can make out what’s not being covered up by Ruselm’s hand as he writes. 

_In all of us, a beast lays waiting,  
in the dark part of our soul.   
It waits in the shadows  
to blacken out heart,  
wanting us to do  
its dark bidding here._

_Some are overpowered  
by the beast within,  
their dark deeds are everywhere.   
Others control its craving,  
quelling its black thoughts,  
leaving it locked in the dark, in which it dwells._

_We have heard of the battles,  
good versus evil,  
light versus dark.  
Therefore, we must be strong,  
and never let it out,  
that beast that lies within._

“Poetry?” Geralt wonders aloud. This earns him a surprised look from the author, his dark eyes darting up conspiratorially. “You’ve never mentioned poetry before.” 

Ruselm promptly snaps the journal shut, tucking it under his arm as he manages to look offended. “You don’t really know me then, do you?” he asks. “Come to think of it, I don’t really know you, either, witcher.” 

“You know enough.” 

“How much is enough?” Ruselm frowns. “And what if I want to know more?” 

Geralt laughs mirthlessly, turning his gaze to the road once more. _Know more?_ He knew what would happen once Ruselm knew more about him; he didn’t even have to think about it. Witchers were close to no one and nothing, and for good reason, too. 

“You should let me come with you.” 

“Excuse me?” Geralt pulls back on Roach’s reins, signaling her to stop. “No.” 

“Why not? You could teach me about monsters, Geralt!” 

“Absolutely not.” 

“What better source for my bestiary than a witcher?” Ruselm exclaims with excitement. It is only now, after knowing the history of Ruselm’s quest, that Geralt can sense his desperation to fulfill his destiny. “Please!” he begs shamelessly. “Allow me to accompany you on your travels. Teach me what you know. Let me see things as they are, and let me remedy what has already passed. I beg of you, witcher.” 

There was such passion behind Ruselm’s delivery that Geralt found it hard to deny the man what he wanted, but he knew what his answer had to be. He knew what would protect the Nazairian from a fate like his mother’s, and he knew how much it would hurt Ruselm to hear Geralt say no. 

But he had to say it. 

For Ruselm’s sake, if not his own. 

“No.” 

“Geralt, please!” 

“I said no,” Geralt grunts. “You’ll do nothing but get yourself killed. I told you witchers travel alone for a reason and I meant it. No ordinary man could witness half the things we see when we hunt, nor could he withstand a blow if he were to get in the way. No means no, Ruselm, I’m sorry.” 

“But!—”

“No.” 

As if in pain, Ruselm forces a nod and swallows any further argument he might’ve had lingering on the tip of his tongue. He turns away from the witcher to find a fork in the road just ahead of them, which Geralt had stopped just in front of without thought as to which direction he should take. Without a further word to Geralt, Ruselm picks a path and begins to walk down it. 

_I’m doing this to keep you safe,_ he wants to say. But the words don’t come out. They can’t. Geralt doesn’t have the energy to force them, either, so he turns Roach down the opposite path and nudges her along. 

_Witchers travel alone,_ that _is how it is meant to be._


End file.
